The Carbon Copy
by C.R.Martin
Summary: He is my pride and joy. My greatest treasure. He is my entire world. And I can't be any more proud of him. For turning out to be a boy that any mother would be proud of. That is why I'm also afraid. But as a parent, the best that I can do is have faith in him, just as he has had faith in me. It can't be too much to ask for...can it?
1. A rediscovery

_Author's Note:  
_

 **THE PRODIGAL SON HAS RETURNED!**

 _Now here's something I've wanted to explore for a long time - the mother-son dynamic between Nicole and Gumball, except in a NON-incestuous context. This story is basically me putting to motion a theory that I've had regarding the protagonist, a theory that has been recently piqued by_ The Fury _and_ The Choices _. I see a lot of potential in how the show can play around with Nicole and Gumball's relationship, but so far it's only done so for comedic value and nothing completely meaningful. Well, nothing completely meaningful that is exclusive only to them._

 _This is where this story comes in. Its purpose is to see the depth and direction that this angle can go, possibly (hopefully) in places that the show itself has not been to yet._

 _Without further ado, enjoy._

 _ **The Carbon** **Copy**_

 **by Christopher R. Martin  
**

Chapter 1 – A rediscovery

* * *

Ugh. Having to clean up your children's bedroom has to be the bane of many parents' existence. I know for me, it is. I think it's easier to count the times when the kids' room _wasn't_ a pigsty. By this point, I'd rather reach into one of those garbage piles in the dumpster rather than underneath their bunk bed.

But it's not like I have much choice in the matter, seeing as that is precisely what I'm doing. An afternoon that could have been spent brushing up on my college studies is instead spent digging out the filth that has accumulated down there. I think at one point I felt something radioactive, but it might have just been my imagination. Though knowing this family, anything can happen.

Oh, well. If it's any consolation, so far there haven't been any month-old pizza slices that spontaneously sprout a set of legs and scuttle away. _That_ was scary, and I've seen plenty in my life.

As I'm removing trash after trash, each one more peculiar than the last, I can't help but grumble at my children's inability to clean up after themselves. Not really my daughter—I trust her enough to know how to operate a vacuum cleaner—so much as my sons. I get that they take after their father, but did they have to _completely_ take after him?

"I don't even want to know," I say in a deadpan tone after pulling out a handkerchief soaked in a suspicious glowing substance. And just like that, my arm is glowing in a similar manner, but I say nothing of it and keep digging.

Behind me, my sons look at each other with discomfort, obviously knowing what the substance is. I'll deal with it once this is over.

"Need any help, Mom?" asks Gumball, leaning forward.

"Oh, it's no big deal," I reply, even though that is not the case whatsoever.

Whether he sees through me or he takes what I say literally, he remains where he's kneeling and continues watching me. I meant to guilt-trip the both of them, but that clearly didn't work out in my favor.

No, scratch that, it does, as Darwin moves forward and lends both his fins to help. Slowly, little by little, the unwanted contents of the bed are being emptied out. One thing I can say is that I might have it a little better than other moms; I tend to find lots of 'interesting' items whenever I have to do this. There's the typical pizza boxes, candy wrappers, plastic cups, cans of lemonade and year-old milk, and then there are things like that nuclear handkerchief that are so removed from the norm.

Gumball has the word 'adventure' written all over him. There's no other way he'd get his paws on any of this otherwise. It makes me all the more curious about the antics he and his brother get into. I wonder how zany they would be in comparison to my own shenanigans. Mine and Richard's.

One last object remains under the bed before it's completely emptied out. I feel it on the tip of my fingers. It's soft. The texture is smooth. It's probably a shirt. A shirt and a pair of pants.

I pull them out. The sight of it ices me to the floor. I can't move. Breathing is hard. My eyes are wide open and stuck that way. My heart nearly skips a beat. The last time I've seen this, I was in the driver's seat of the station wagon, looking from afar. It's been a while…

"Mom?" A voice calls to me. It's near and distant both at once. "Mom?"

"Mrs. Mom?" Another voice joins. They repeat themselves, over and over. It takes a moment for my brain to register them. To acknowledge their presence. When they do, I am so overwhelmed that I need to gain my bearings, even though I've just been here in the house the whole day. I can breathe normally.

"Hey, Mom? Are you okay?" asks Gumball, waving his paw right before my eyes. As I put the object in my grasp down flat on the bottom bunk, his face lights up, he lunges at it and stares it at unbelievingly for the longest time. "No way. I…I thought I lost this! Figures that it was down there all along." He's pleasantly surprised, as he was when he first wore it.

Darwin, his eyes also brightened up, searches under the bed and pulls out a black belt that matches the plain white shirt and pants perfectly. He and Gumball then talk excitedly about the rediscovered karate gi, wondering how it ended up underneath their bed.

 _I wish it stayed lost_ , a voice inside of me utters disdainfully.

Really, though, I'm not sure what to feel. Maybe I should be glad since I _did_ pay for this gi. It didn't exactly come cheap, let alone the black belt. If it weren't for my own achievements as a karateka, this belt wouldn't be here right now.

The disdainful voice in me continues. _I should have gotten rid of them. I shouldn't have bought them at all._

I'm surprised by what this side of me is saying. I can't really be thinking this, can I? Or am I just fooling myself?

I haven't been this confused since I found out Richard landed a job as a pizza delivery guy. I need some space. Right now, my mind is a filing cabinet, and its contents have been spilled out. I need to be somewhere I can regain myself. Somewhere I can learn to make sense of things again.

Breathing deeply, I take to my feet and head for the door. My sons take notice and hurry before I leave the room.

"Are you sure you're alright, Mom? You're not looking very good," starts Gumball, concerned for my well-being.

I affect the tiniest smile and shake my head slowly. I look over my shoulder and say to him calmly, "I'll be alright, honey. I think I've had one drink too many today."

"Then, maybe lay off the brandy for a while? I don't know what else to say," says my eldest son, shrugging.

"I'll try," I say to him, following a giggle. Hoping that it will hide my unease.

Oh, who am I kidding? Everyone in this family knows each other like the back of their hands. Smiling at him does nothing. Not much. I'm grateful for his concern, though, so that's something.

"So will you two be fine cleaning up the rest?" I ask, putting my paw on the doorknob.

"Leave it to us, Mom," replies Gumball with a firm nod of his head.

I close the door behind them and proceed down the stairs. In the living room, Richard is reclined on the sofa, taking a nap from all the eating and watching he's done all afternoon. An empty bucket of popcorn lays idle on the coffee table, with several unpopped kernels strewn beside it and on the carpet. Not _that_ bad of a mess, I suppose.

Coming down from the stairs, I gently caress my husband's face, pick up the bowl and the kernels, and turn the television off. I make my way to the kitchen and, to my pleasant surprise, find the dish rack filled with newly cleaned utensils, glasses and plates. In addition to that, but the oven and the fridge are glistening as if they had been recently bought from the store. Last but not least, the kitchen sink is spic and span, with not a single scrap of food in sight and the steel surface glistening and giving off my reflection.

These are the chores that I had set for myself earlier today. A passing glance at Richard as he snores loudly is all the clue I need. I beam at him and giggle. I have to admit, when he helps out, he _really_ helps out. In the few instances that he does any kind of housework, he sure gives it his all. Well, mostly because I'm usually there, watching his every move, drilling my eyes into his head so that he gets the job done properly. But doing all this work without telling me is something I'd never in my wildest dreams expect of him.

I always knew that I could count on him.

Sadly for him, it looks like just a little bit of his hard will have to be undone. I throw the unpopped kernels in the trash and proceed to rinse the bowl. As I grab the sponge and start scrubbing, my reflection looks on from the window in front of me. The tap continues to run as I stop what I'm doing and stare at the window.

Now, instead of seeing my reflection, I see my son. Gumball. Not only that, I see him wearing those clothes. Wearing that gi. That belt, tightly tied around his waist, the embroidered golden Kanji showing on both ends. His face is one of pride. One of confidence. A bravado not too different from my own.

Whether it's actually happening or if it's just my mind playing with me, the projection on the mirror shuffles back and forth between an image of Gumball and an image of myself at his age. The similarities are striking. We both dressed the same way, except my belt is red. Confidence and pride burn in our eyes, in our scowls.

It's disconcerting, knowing that my son might very well go down the same road that I did. As early as the day I conceived him in my womb, I made an oath that I would allow him to live his life freely. To live as himself. To give him the freedom to make his own choices, while still guiding him every step of the way. The freedom that he deserves. The freedom that I had been denied as a kid, the freedom that I could only earn from severing ties.

I made this oath for the sake of all of my children, but Gumball is a separate case altogether. Beyond just his appearance, beyond being the first born, I've always known that he takes after me so much. And that fact only became clearer with each passing day.

Thus I've made it my solemn duty, as a mother, not to subject him to what I had to endure. Not to repeat the mistakes of my own parents. Their negligence, their overbearingness, their negativity, I swore to myself not to recreate any of that.

But uncovering that gi under that bed has made a big difference. With that thing around, the chances of my fears coming true are greater than before. Everything I've ever put into raising this family, raising my son, could be undone in one fell swoop.

I cannot let that happen. As a mother, I cannot allow it to happen.


	2. Reignited Fire

_**The Carbon Copy**_

 **by Christopher R. Martin**

Chapter 2 – Reignited Fire

* * *

The weekday morning rush plays out with no deviation whatsoever. My classmates are doing one of two things: chatting it up about the most exciting things that have happened to them recently or getting into stupid fun contests like paper plane throwing. I am doing neither of them. Instead, I'm seated on my chair, resting my head on top of my arms, drumming my fingers along my desk as the noises over my head. I do pass a smile and wave at Penny when she takes her seat, which she repays in kind before waiting patiently herself.

At the sound of the school bell, the entire classroom stops everything they're doing and those of us who haven't taken our seats yet do so before Miss Simian arrives. I pick my head up from the table and dust my sweater off. I don't know why, it's just an instinct.

Our teacher enters the door carrying her belongings with her in one arm, looking as disconnected as she always is. She takes her seat and puts her feet up on her table, which instantly makes all of us retch. There really was no need for her to treat us to the many disgusting calluses, dead skin and loose fur on her soles. It's enough to make even a tough guy throw up in his mouth.

Paying no mind to her lack of class and our reactions, she pulls her hand out for her pile of books and papers. In between them is a clipboard with a pen in the clip. She pulls the pen out, clicks it open and, without any indication, calls for our names in alphabetical order. Darwin and I promptly respond when we hear her calling for us.

After roll call is done, Simian mercifully puts her feet down on the floor and flips the paper over and reads off the current one.

"A few quick announcements before we get started," she begins half-heartedly, eyes partly closed. In between her words, she stops to take a sip of coffee from her mug. "First of all, there will be no music classes for this week, as there are a few instruments that need repairing or tuning. Second, let's give a round of applause to Alan for his canned foods donation to our hunger drive last week."

Everyone might be applauding, but not me. I look over my shoulder and shoot a glare at Alan as he basks in the ovation, smiling from cheek to cheek—wait, do balloons have cheeks? He doesn't even glance at me, not once. What a load. My poor, poor classmates. I wonder what they'd say, what they'd think, if— _when_ they see this helium-inflated punk for who he really is. Whatever it may be, I'll be there to capture it.

The applause dies down—thank goodness, I don't know how much more of it I could take—and Simian gets on with the rest of the announcements, not losing her detachment even for a second.

"Third, and this ties in with what I just said, there's been a noticeable lack of outside-of-school involvement from this class in particular. Aside from a few exceptions, you are encouraged to take part in at least one extracurricular activity. This is purely voluntary, but try to make an effort to see the good it will do for you, and you just might enjoy it, for all you know. That's all for now, let's start with the class and…whatever."

Carelessly dropping her clipboard onto the table, Simian then gets up from her seat to begin the lesson. She catches Tina Rex raising her hand for a question and acknowledges her.

"Do we _have_ to pick an activity from the school?" says the overgrown lizard in her booming, unfeminine voice. She's probably asking because she can't really do half of what the school has to offer.

Mumbling a groan, Simian faces Tina and answers, "No, what you do doesn't have to be sponsored by the school. So long as you find anything you want to do."

"Anything?" asks a confused Darwin.

"Yes, anything," Simian grumbles. "Now if there are no more further questions, shall we begin?"

* * *

Anything we want, huh? I suppose there _is_ something out there. Something that will keep me busy. Something interesting. But this is Elmore, and let's just say that it's hard to find anything remotely exciting anymore. We'll see about that.

"What do you mean you can't think of anything? There has to be _something_ you want to do," says my brother as he munches on his sandwich.

"Sorry, I guess I'm just coming up with nothing." I take a swig of my juice casually and rest my head on my paw.

"I don't believe that at all, Gumball. Maybe if you actually put some effort into it, then it'll come to you." Darwin points his spoon at me to get his message across.

"Oh, and I suppose _you_ know what you want to do outside of school?" I fold my arms and squint my eye at him, expecting him to give me an answer. He doesn't. He stammers as he searches for one, but like me, he comes up empty-handed. "I knew it."

"I'll figure it out, okay? At least I'm trying," says Darwin defensively.

Behind him, I spot Penny walking across the cafeteria with her lunch tray in her hands. She stops at our table, and as she's about to ask, I skirt over to the other side of the table and give her a place to sit.

"Hey, what are you guys talking about?" she asks, looking at the two of us back and forth. She starts eating.

All of a sudden, today's just gotten ten times better. I don't bother hiding the flush on my cheeks. Our relationship is already public knowledge. Yet my heart continues to beat at a quickened pace when I'm around her.

I regain the ability to talk in five seconds, but my brother has beaten me to the punch and says, "Gumball can't decide what he wants to do outside of school."

"Dude, really?" I ask him dryly, giving a look of annoyance his way. So much for my temporary high just now.

"Y'know, Gumball, if you don't know what to do, there's a vacancy in the cheerleading squad," she asks, looking at me. "I know that you were once interested in it, and I can't think of anyone else as brave as you for having to wear that outfit. But you won't have to wear it this time around. And I read that cheerleading started an all-guy sport, so if anyone makes fun of you for it, you can tell them exactly that. Or I can turn into a dragon and scare them off, whatever you prefer."

I chuckle at the suggestion. If anyone else had told me that cheerleading used to be for guys, I wouldn't have believed them. I can take Penny's word to heart without a shadow of a doubt.

But even if I am convinced, I'm not feeling keen on being a cheerleader. Not yet. Maybe in the near or distant future, but not now.

"Thanks, Penny, but um… Some other time, I guess," I say to her, which leaves her a bit deflated. I hate having to put her down like that.

"Oh. I see. Well, have you considered revisiting something else that you used to do? Anything?"

I ponder on her question. Something that I used to do. Something that I used to love doing.

Now that I think about it, I _do_ recall one thing. As a matter of fact, my interest in it has returned. Like a bonfire that's been put out and relit a second time around, except stronger than it once was.

I take this time to think about a number of things. One is the old karate gi I wore way back when, the one that I showed off to my classmates without realizing I was making a fool out of myself. The one that Mom found under our bed.

Another is the fight that Mom had with her old friend Yuki. As terrifying as it was for me, Darwin, Anais and Masami—heck, for everyone involved—there was something awe-inspiring about that fight. Mom was someone else then. Those kinds of high stakes bring out a different side of a person that they hardly show. A side that no one might have known even existed.

She knew how to love, but she also knew how to lose her temper. We loved and feared her in return. Anyone could tell from the look in her eyes that she was a strong woman. During that fight, she showed how strong she really was. Not just physically, but in other ways, too. Mentally, emotionally, the list goes on. I knew that both my fear and respect for her grew a hundred fold that night.

Since then, I've told myself I wanted the same strength as her. I've told myself that I _can_ be a better person. Stronger. With more self-respect. Prouder.

"Gumball?" asks Penny, staring deeply into my eyes. I break out of my pondering and shake my head. "Gumball!"

"Huh? What…" I am so all over the place that I don't even know what I'm saying.

"Welcome back to planet Earth," says Darwin lifelessly, finishing the rest of his lunch while I've barely touched mine.

I look down on my tray. On my uneaten beef, carrots, peas and corn. I scoop up a piece of them with my spoon, but the bell rings a split second before I put them in my mouth. Everyone gets up and hurries back to class, and I have no choice but to do the same. Oh, well. It's not like I was in a hurry to eat this anyway.

After giving my tray back to the lunch lady, I catch up with Darwin and Penny, who've begun the walk back to the classroom. Penny looks at me and asks, "So?"

"Hm?"

"Have you thought of anything?" Thought of what to do after school, I assume.

"Yeah. Yeah, I have," I respond, brimming with confidence. With a clear frame of mind. A renewed vigor.


	3. Putting aside my hesitation

_**The Carbon Copy**_

 **by Christopher R. Martin  
**

Chapter 3 – Putting aside my hesitation

* * *

I have faced many adversities in my life, from a forty-foot T-Rex to an army of cannibals to a swarm of hostile turtles to my own family. I've faced them and conquered them, and I'm very certain that there will be more of them to come in the future. When they do, I'll conquer them too.

What I'm not sure I can even conquer is all this university work, these textbooks laid out in front of me on the dinner table. I'm pouring my eyes over every last textbook in a timely manner while snappily taking down notes in my notebook. They are coming at me without any sign of relent; each book is either as thick as the last or thicker. Calculus. Chemistry. Biology. One assignment is finished, and another takes its place. The process goes on in a seemingly endless cycle, its duration dictated only by the hands of the clock in front of me ticking with the seconds that fleet by.

All I have to keep me going is my reminder of _you can pull through_ constantly sounding in my mind like a music track on repeat.

For the most part, I am content with my lot in life. I have no regrets with the choices I've made, as difficult or foolish as they were at the time. As many have always said, all things, the good and the bad, work together in the end. Marrying my husband, bearing and raising my own children, and having neither too much nor too little, that's my definition of a worthwhile life.

Yet there are moments where I wish I could undo aspects of my life. Moments where my choices come back to bite me. I was young, wild, headstrong and stubborn, but as inevitable as that was, I find myself wishing I had the wisdom that I have now.

The University of Elmore is a prestigious institution that's paved the way for students in both academic and creative fields. Graduates there would go on to chase their aspirations, be it as a lawyer, engineer, businessman, director, producer, performer, entrepreneur and so on. I thought that becoming a student there would be the perfect way to close those patches I'd left behind. To tie those loose ends that have been left dangling for so long. University was part of my parents'—my mother's, anyway—aspirations for me, and I never told them this, but it was also a part of my aspirations.

But my studies are not for them. They're for my sake. Mine and my family's sake.

That reminds me… What _have_ they been up to lately? If they're even alive at all… I'm not saying that I'd be overly thrilled if I find them standing on my doorstep. I can't explain this curiosity, it's just there.

I'm not missing them, am I? Even just a little? I can't be. I severed those threads long ago. There's no way.

A vibration runs from the pocket of my skirt along with a catchy xylophone jingle. I pull out my phone to see who's calling me. Great. Just great. It's her again. And here I was just thinking about her. About burning that bridge, severing those threads. Now her name's showing on the screen of my phone. It's only her surname, not the whole thing; like I'd ever bother to put her entire name down on my contact list.

This is only the fifth time today that she's tried getting in touch with me, and it's started since last week. _Put the phone down, Nicole_ , I instruct myself silently. With a shaky paw, I touch the red icon and set the phone aside next to my Biology textbook.

It doesn't ring until five minutes later, at which point I growl in anger and almost throw my school supplies to the side. Though I relent from my typical fit of rage when I see the name and picture of the caller. My blood stops boiling. This is a call that I take with no hesitation.

"Hi there, Yuki," I speak into the phone, taking a well-earned break from my studies and lounging on the sofa.

On the other end of the call, Yuki notices my dry yet pleased way of answering her because the tone she takes up is a remorseful one. "Oh, did I call at a bad time? _Sumimasen_."

I roll my eyes from her insistent propriety and say to her, "Don't apologize. What's going on?"

"Not much. I'm just calling to tell you that my husband and I have a dinner scheduled for Saturday night, and I'd be very happy if you and Richard could make it. You two always know how to make a formal event a little less stuffy, and I figured a little excitement would do all of us some good."

"Yuki, I… I don't know what to say," I reply as best as I can, taken by surprise by the offer. "I'm not sure if I can even accept something like that."

"Oh, of course you can. Nicole, I insist, really. There are—how do you say it? No strings attached?"

Her butchering of the idiom has me giggling to myself, covering my mouth so that she doesn't hear it. "Well…alright. I'll run it by Richard later. Just one thing, Yuki."

" _Hai?_ "

"Why are you doing this?" I cross one of my legs over the other, lie down on the sofa and stare at the ceiling.

"No reason. I just want to pick up where we left off. Have a fresh new start. Don't you want that as well, Nicole?"

I hesitate on my answer for a few seconds and ponder. People have told me before that my drive to come out on top, my resolve to be better than everyone else at what I did, is one of my greatest qualities. What they never knew is that drive, that resolve, was more of a double-edged sword than anything. I strove for greatness and attained it, but there was always a price.

One of the steepest prices I had to pay was jeopardizing my friendships, if not throwing them away. One of them was with Yuki. Defeating her in that final match at that kumite was the burning of a bridge that has endured for a long time. It was one of few mistakes that I could not live with. That I would undo if I were given the chance. I never got that chance. Until now.

"I do. I'd like that very much," I say softly over the phone, rolling my head to the side. Smiling.

"Great. It's settled. This Saturday, seven o'clock sharp," says Yuki enthusiastically, like a fangirl. "I look forward to it. Don't forget to put on your best dress."

"I'll remember that. Bye now," I say, staring absently at the television screen.

From her end, Yuki hangs up after saying her own goodbyes. I put the phone on the coffee table and rest both my paws on my chest.

I then rise from hearing the front door opening and seeing Gumball walking in. He puts his backpack down next to the staircase and proceeds to the kitchen.

"Hi, honey. How was school?" I ask him, adjusting the collar on my shirt and then my skirt.

"Alright, I guess. Nothing out of the ordinary happened," replies Gumball as he moves past the kitchen and into the laundry. "Hey, Mom, did you touch my gi yesterday?"

Lifting an eyebrow, I follow my son to the laundry to find out what he's planning. I see him peering into the washing machine, and I say to him, "It's on the clothesline outside. What are you going to do with it?"

"I'm going to use it again."

With those words, all the color in my complexion flushes away. My eyes dilute, and my mouth hangs open like a door left ajar.

"Mom, please. This isn't going to be like last time. This time, I'm gonna take it seriously."

"Gumball, slow down," I say, stopping him by putting my paws on his shoulders. I get down to my son's level and look straight at his face. "Let's take it from the top. What exactly is going on?"

"Miss Simian's making us do stuff outside of school. I wasn't that into it at first, but I thought to myself I've always wanted to go back to learning karate. What do you say, Mom? Can I?"

Gumball clasps his hands together as he asks me this. But instead of putting on a pouting face, there's a familiar flash in his eyes. I recognize it as I've had it before. A flash of determination. I can't really put my finger on it, but something about it is different from when I used to have it.

He genuinely wants this. He wants this so much. He wants it as if it's the last of a certain toy in a department store, and he'd lose his mind if he doesn't get his way.

But I've raised him better than this…

Standing up, I put on a cold expression as I brutally, bluntly, say to him, "No."

Devastation takes the place of my son's determination. His arms dangle lifelessly as he hunches forward, mouth and eyes agape in disbelief.

"Why?" asks Gumball, feeling betrayed.

"Because I said so." I turn my attention to a laundry basket overflowing with dirty clothes. I guess while I'm here, I should get all this cleaning out of the way. I stash each article of clothing into the washing machine, leaving the topic to dissipate by itself.

"That's not fair," Gumball continues, raising his voice.

"If I always gave you what you wanted, that would only spoil you. You should know that by now. And don't you use that tone on your mother, young man."

Gumball is still standing there, staring at me with a piercing gaze. Affirming his stance on this matter. "I wouldn't have to if you let me have _some_ say in this! I'm sorry, Mom, but you're not the only one who can make decisions in this family. I'm pretty sure that I'm capable of making my own choices."

"And I'm telling you now to make a different choice." One last pair of pants to put in the wash, and I grab the fabric softener and laundry detergent and pour just the right amount of them.

"No, Mom. I won't." Has he ever been _this_ difficult? I don't think so.

Either way, my blood is starting to boil. I glare at my son, and it changes the look on his face, from a brave one to a fearful one. "Gumball Watterson, I am warning you once and only once. You do not, I repeat, do _not_ question my authority. Karate is not meant for everyone, and it's not meant for you. Forget about it. I'm ordering you now: forget about it." I turn the washing machine on and close the lid before the water starts running.

Clenching his fists and his teeth, Gumball shuts his eyes and averts his straining face away from me. His lips quiver and a tiny drop sneaks through the corner of his eye. Eventually, he turns at me fiercely, and he shows me an expression that I've never seen from him.

"You once told me that I can be a winner," he screams at me, his lungs threatening to rip out of his body. "You told me that there was no such thing as a loser, only people who refuse to be winners or even call themselves winners!"

"Gumball, what are you—" I'm flabbergasted by this. Not by my son, my own flesh and blood, lashing out at me, but by the point that he's trying to make. He's a wildfire. Once he got started, there was no hope of ever putting him out.

"After seeing what you could do, what you were really capable of, I finally understood what you meant!" Gumball carries on, fortifying his stance like a band of soldiers fortify a stronghold. "You always wanted me to respect myself better. To respect myself in a way that I want others to respect me. Well, here's my chance, Mom. I can be the winner you want me to be. If you'd let me…"

I lean on the washing machine and fold my arms. I look away from my son and close my eyes.

Darn it! Darn it all. I can't believe he remembers those words that I told him. Moreover, I can't believe that he took it to heart. I should have known better than to plant that seed in his head. Now here I am, reaping what I've sown.

When I told him that he can be a winner, when I drove him to be more than he was then, there was a point where enough is enough. Plenty of points, even. Forcing my son to stand on our roof with a golf club in the middle of a thunderstorm, stranding him in the middle of a desert, I should have stopped then and there. What was I thinking? What possessed me to do what I did, anyway?

Or perhaps I wasn't possessed. Perhaps I'm more of a chip off the old block than I'd like to admit, just as Gumball is one himself. Thinking about it makes me want to throw up. That toxicity is part of the Watterson name. That it flows in the blood of anyone bearing that name.

No matter what I do, there are just some things I can't escape from. No matter how far I run, what measures I take, whether I like it or not, this devious, wretched little monster will always be around following me wherever I go.

Though that may be the case, I can at least put that monster down. Come out on top. I've done so many times in the past, so why stop now?

Reaching a decision, I sigh and move off of the washing machine. I crouch down to Gumball's eye level once again and put my paws around one of his. What I am about to do next will be going against the virtues I've upheld as a mother. All I can do is trust him. Trust that he can indeed make his own decisions. Live with them without any regret.

That he can be what I could not… Hm. Maybe there's _one_ virtue I'm not going against.

"Alright, Gumball," I say hesitantly, enduring this bitter pill to swallow. "You have my permission."

Gumball's eyes light up into unfiltered joy. He smiles at me brightly and lunges at me for an embrace. "Thanks, Mom."

I briefly repay his hug before gently pushing him off of me. "On one condition. You're not going to karate lessons at all."

Understandably confused, Gumball quirks his eyebrows and looks at me weirdly. "How am I supposed to learn karate, then?" He shrugs at me.

"Your gi should finish drying up in"—I pass a short glance at my phone to check the time, and it is now three forty-five in the afternoon—"fifteen minutes. When it's done drying, take it, put it on and come to the tool shed at five o'clock."

"Why the tool shed?"

"Just trust me." _As I'm trusting you now_ , I add inside my head. "Can you do that?"

"I can." Gumball nods at me and leaves the laundry, his motivation blistering as the sun.

I smile at him while he leaves my sight, but that joy is momentary and gradually dissolves into nothing. Taking a deep breath, I tilt my head down and hold both sides of my hips.

 _Please don't make me regret this, Gumball._

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_**

 _There will be a poll on my account very soon. Feel free to cast your vote on it._


	4. My mother, my sensei

_**The Carbon Copy**_

 **by Christopher R. Martin  
**

Chapter 4 – My mother, my sensei

* * *

As the right sleeve of my gi slips over my arm, I look myself in the mirror from multiple angles, admiring how well this thing still fits me. Snug as a glove. I never thought I'd be wearing this again, but I am. The excitement almost gets the better of me. I can't help but laugh jubilantly at the feeling of this fabric around my person.

I calm myself eventually and move closer towards the mirror. I stare at my reflection dead in the eye, casting aside my childishness. Fists clenching on either side, my smile slowly transforming into a fierce gaze. There's power behind it, and the key is fully unlocking it. I want to channel it from my face to my fists.

To my right is the black belt that Mom bought along with the gi. I think about tying it around my waist, but decide against it, choosing instead to wait until the time I can rightfully wear it. For now, baby steps. One small step at a time.

I can do this. I want this. No rush. Let everything come naturally.

Pumping my fist with resolve, I proceed down the stairs and to the backyard. Across the grass and to the tool shed I walk. I still don't understand why Mom asked me to come down here.

That question is answered when I carefully open the door. The tools are nowhere in sight. The shelves have been taken down and set aside by the wall ahead of me. On that wall hangs a banner that has Japanese letters on it. The language is supposed to have more than one alphabet, but seeing as I don't know the first thing about the Japanese language, I can't tell which of these letters is which.

It reads 吉田りゅ空手

In the middle of the shed is my mother dressed in a karate gi of her own, down on both her knees with her paws rested on them. Her eyes are closed, and a focused glower graces her face. Her chest contracts and expands from her breathing, which is also paced and controlled like her entire body.

I want to palm myself in the face for not considering the obvious. Unless of course this is what she meant.

A black belt is tied around her waist, and both of its ends also have Japanese letters on them. One ends has the same letters as the banner's embroidered on it, while the other has a different set.

五段

"Step forward, Gumball," says Mom without even opening an eye. I do as I'm instructed, quietly judging the distance between me and her. "Kneel down." My left knee is the first to bend, followed by my right. I take on the same posture as her, resting my paw on my knees. "Now do as I am doing. Breathe in, breathe out." Her eyes remain shut as she tells me what to do.

I follow her obediently, close my eyes and breathe. I do my best to match her pace, but I have a feeling that I haven't quite gotten it right. Either I'm too fast or too slow, or I might be off in another respect.

She and I continue to inhale and exhale for thirty seconds. And by then…

" _Yame!_ " grunts Mom.

Not knowing what she just said, I peek through one eye and stupidly go, "Um…"

"It means 'stop'. Meditation is over," says Mom softly. "You can sit easy."

"Oh." Nodding my head, I relax myself and tuck my feet underneath my butt. Just to be sure, I add, "So what's the purpose behind this?"

"You want to learn karate don't you, my son?" Mom slightly lowers her head as she asks me.

"I do." That is my solemn answer to her question.

"Take a look at this, Gumball." She presents me the end of her belt with the different set of letters. "In Japanese, this is pronounced _Godan_. Or 'fifth dan'. Or a fifth-degree black belt. This gives me the right to teach what I've been taught. So if you want to learn, I will allow you, but on the condition that I be the one to teach you, and no one else. Do you understand?"

She leaves me no choice on the matter, not that there really _is_ another choice. She's dead serious. The way her face hardens even more just gives it away. As she said a while ago, she doesn't want her authority to be questioned, especially not by her kids or her husband.

Not that I would ever question it. Not that it has ever crossed my mind. When I think about it, this might be for the best. Who better to learn from than my own mother?

"Yes, Mom," I reply in acknowledgement and bow to her, thinking that it's definitely a customary thing to do.

Mom chuckles. Apparently this is amusing to her, and only proves to her that I have quite a long road ahead of me. A road that is laden with difficulty, with different kinds and degrees of pain.

"I guess you have the right idea," she says. "Let's begin you first lesson in _Yoshida-Ryu Karate_." She rises to her feet, and so do I. She bows to me, and I attempt to do as she did, thinking on each step. Feet together, bow with the entire upper body and come back up.

I might be thinking about it too much because in trying to stay as stiff as possible, I end up shaking instead.

"We'll work on that. For now, show me your fighting stance," Mom orders, folding her arms.

The fighting stance I go into is rather clumsy. My feet are basically an afterthought. All I focus on is putting my fists up, and I feel like such an idiot. My fists are up in front of me, alright, but it feels _and_ looks awkward. If someone threw a punch at me, it would dart past my arms and leave me with a broken nose or jaw, or send my teeth flying out of my mouth.

It turns out that my feet are also a big deal, because when Mom moves over to inspect my pose, she taps my left leg with her foot and causes it to wobble. As she circles me with her arms behind her back, like a drill sergeant at a boot camp, she stops in front of me. Then in one swift move, she thrusts her paw at me and forces a flinch out of me. It goes by in such a blur that it might not even be there, not a part of her body.

I'm…not out cold? Somehow, I'm still standing. I don't feel any kind of pain. All I feel is strands of my fur going erect.

Cautiously I open my one eye and proceed with opening the other. Mom's fist is an inch away from my nose. Except, it's not a fist. Her thumb and middle finger are joined like she's about to…

 _Flick!_ One small act is enough to break me out of my stance and have me clamping my nose with both paws. It doesn't hurt that bad, but it caught me off guard. Badly. I then think, _what guard?_ These spaghetti arms? Yeah, right.

"That was embarrassing," I admit, a nasal flair added to my words as I rub my nose free of the sensation.

"You will learn, my dear _gakusei_ ," adds Mom. Does she _really_ know Japanese to some extent, or she doesn't and is just saying these foreign words just because they sound cool? Not that they don't. "First of all, your feet. Foundation is an essential element of any martial art, not just karate. A good karateka always maintains a firm foundation. _Always_.That kind of posture will leave you susceptible to being swept off of your feet."

She moves her arms and legs in a slow yet fluid fashion, her feet gliding along the floor as they move into position. Every action she takes drips with conviction, with concentration. The resulting pose is far more refined than the one I tried.

Her last sentence just now is starting to make some sense.

"As a karateka, that is the last thing you want to happen," she says deeply. "Pay attention to how I'm standing. Notice how my legs are apart in a one hundred and five degree angle? Notice where my back foot is facing? How my back is straight and my knees are bent at all times? How my knees never go past my toes? How I'm maintaining my center of mass? This is what a good stance—or _datchi_ —a good foundation looks like."

I take everything in—my mother's words, every little detail about her stance—and show my understanding with a nod of my head. I look over all of them repeatedly until they are burned into my head. Into my consciousness.

Mom stands easy and puts up the same clumsy pose that I put up not a minute ago, except…well, clumsier. I assume it's for the purpose of this lesson, since she beckons me to approach her.

"Try and move me," she says.

"Okay…?" I give her a small nudge on her stomach.

After I push her, she goes into the correct pose that she showed me. "Alright, now try moving me again."

I still don't see what this is for, but that changes when I push her again only to find that I can't. I exert more force, more strength, but all that effort does nothing to get her to budge. Her feet are firmly planted on the floor, and her upper body is upright and rigid.

"Can't move me, huh?" asks Mom with a smirk.

She stands normally and bows to me, which I promptly return. "This is why we must never neglect our _datchi_ ," she then explains. "Now, give it a try. Give me the best _datchi_ you can do."

Bowing to her, I take a deep breath and revisit the pictures I took in my head. I envision myself in place of my mother, assuming the stance precisely. Giving off an aura of strength, an aura of respect and dignity. I can do this.

My movement is deliberate, my arms and legs shifting in a feather-like motion. Sliding into position, knees bending at just the right angle, back straightening. I keep my head straight and stare in front of me. The way my fists are raised is a far cry from my initial attempt: one poised just a few inches away from my face and the other a little farther away. I relax my paws and curl them, relax my shoulders and widen them.

I ensure that my breathing is neither too fast nor too slow, which is how Mom did it. I narrow my eyes a bit and clear my head of all other thoughts, but at the same time refrain from putting _too_ much thought on how I'm standing. That's all there is to it. Let it come naturally.

I hold this posture for a minute or two. Or three. And in those minutes, a strain starts to build on my legs and somewhere around my butt. The longer I stay standing like this, the harsher this strain becomes. But still, I do not let myself falter.

Once more, Mom inspects me, circling me in the opposite direction this time. I continue looking forward. From the one glance that I afford her, I notice that she's starting her inspection at my feet and then working her way up. I also make note of her nod of approval as she walks around with her arms behind her and rubs her chin. Coming around from the other side, she affects a ghost of a smile.

" _Yame!_ " Mom commands, and I believe the word to mean 'stop', so I revert back to my original stance. "That was good, Gumball. How did you find it?"

"I'm kinda sore around here," I answer, rubbing my legs and my butt to tell her where it hurts. "Was that normal for you, Mom?"

"It was. But it'll go away when your _datchi_ becomes second nature. You'll get used to it, Gumball."

"You think so?" I utter, feeling a sense of comfort and encouragement.

Mom smiles at me with confidence. "I know so," she responds. "Before I teach you your first technique, always remember to stand with your feet apart shoulder-width, your toes facing inwards and knees slightly bent. Like so." She forms an 'x' with her arms and slowly brings them down to both side, her paws clenched into fists all the way. Her feet are as she described they should be.

"Right, got it," I acknowledge and mimic her as close as possible.

"No, no, no, sweetie. The right response to use is _hai!_ "

"Oh. Okay, then. Erm, I mean… _hai!_ "

"Good. With that done, let's continue. The second lesson for today is a simple straight punch." Mom throws her fist out in a single quick strike while her other arm is tucked in behind her. "Give it a try."

The punch I throw out is nowhere near the precision and power of Mom's. I have the 'staying as still as possible' part down, but it's not yet spot-on.

"Like this?" I ask her tentatively, awaiting her to correct me.

Rubbing her chin, Mom nudges her head to the side. "You're on the right track, but it can be better. Tell me, Gumball. Where do you think the strength of a punch comes from?"

Even though I'm certain I'll be wrong, I go with an obvious answer anyway and say, "The arm?"

Mom shakes her head and throws another punch with the same arm. She alternates between her fists when letting her strikes loose. "It comes from the core," she elaborates, patting her stomach with one paw while her outstretched hand stays at its spot. "A stable core will allow you to direct that strength where it should be directed while you also retain your balance. That means ensuring that not just your arm is straight, but your back is straight as well, just like with your _datchi_."

" _Hai!_ " I exclaim.

"Taking what I've said to you to mind, let me see the best punch you can throw!"

Breathing calmly, I spread my legs apart and bring my arms together in an 'x' before letting them down. My paws curl into fists, and I thrust my right paw out while my back stays straight throughout. I feel a flow of power coursing from my core and towards my arm, as my mother described. It seems as though that my core is doing most, if not all, of the work. My arm is more of a tool, an instrument, than anything, just as a gardener is the one pulling his weight, and his tractor, his trimming shears or his rake are there to make his job easier.

Nonetheless, I'm amazed by this. By this strength that's in me. By the fact that I can—that I _do_ —have more control over it than I recognize. It might have always been there—that was my hunch, anyway—but the real mystery is the extent of it. With this in mind, it's a miracle that anyone who's ever made Mom angry was lucky enough to leave with their lives. I can consider myself, and this whole family, for that matter, lucky.

If this is what power is, what it means to have it in your possession, then I don't ever want to lose it. I can take myself farther with this strength. If I foster it, nurture it, put it to use constantly, I might be able to go places I've never dreamed of going.

"Not bad, Gumball," Mom smiles and nods approvingly. "And for your other arm."

Um… Hm. There's a method to this. I couldn't make it out when Mom gave a demonstration, so I decide to simply wing it for now, thrust my left arm out and tuck the right one in.

Darn it! I'm doing something wrong. I knew it. But _what_ am I doing wrong?

Her lips pursed, Mom addresses my right arm and turns my fist over. She also lifts my head up by the chin and fixes my posture. The last thing she fixes is my arm, which is tilted at a tiny angle. If that part wasn't that important, she might have left my arm alone.

"Make sure the back of your paw is facing downwards as you bring it in," she explains. "And when you punch, turn your paw like so." She extends her arm and turns her fist. "It's one"—she demonstrates a few more punches—"swift"—to elaborate on what she means—"move. The moment of impact is where all that power in your punch comes out. As your fist turns and makes contact, the entire weight of your punch will be felt. So, that being said, one more time."

" _Hai!_ "

From my starting position, I punch with my right paw. I stay still for a moment and breathe, counting the time in between each inhale and exhale. In a blur, I extend the other arm and pull in the one that's already out. I take my mother's advice into consideration and turn my fists in their respective directions, making sure that they happen simultaneously. The attack is sharper, more refined, the strength from my core to my arm flowing better.

Back at the center of the tool shed, Mom folds her arms and beams at me. "Good, good, you're getting it down," she comments. "I'm impressed, _gakusei_. But this is only the beginning. The next thing I want you to do now is a drill. At my count, perform your punches at your fastest and strongest, taking into account everything I've told you so far. Ready?"

" _Hai!_ " I respond diligently, hardening my face into a scowl.

" _Hajime! Ichi!_ "

I throw a right punch…

" _Ni!_ "

…and then a left…

" _San!_ "

…alternating between the two.

" _Shi!_ "

I don't think about doing it or how to do it.

" _Go!_ "

Actually, I don't think about anything, period.

" _Roku!_ "

I simply act these punches out…

" _Shichi!_ "

Going with the flow.

" _Hachi!_ "

The process coming naturally as a result, gradually becoming as much a part of me as my arms and legs.

" _Kyuu!_ "

Narrowing her stare, Mom tilts her head down and notes every aspect of my current stance. "For your last strike, I want to hear a _kiai_ from you. Let every ounce of power explode from your core and out of your fist with the sound of your scream!" There's a dedication in her words that is pronounced. It's infectious. It carries over from her to me. If my heart wasn't already racing, then it is now.

Every beat of it rolls along my chest. I can't still it, so I let it beat, beat and beat.

" _Kiai juu!_ "

My final punch is accompanied with a resounding scream that pierces through these walls. Breath after encumbered breath exits my lungs. My fist burns from the exertion – a good kind of burn. A sensation that lingers and dies down in time, though I don't want it to. I want it to last. I want to revel in it. To relish it and perhaps spread it all over my body. Feel it in full.

Mom's scowl softens into a smile. I mean, she was already smiling, but it's taken a more compassionate turn. This one is more along the lines of 'I'm so proud of you', whereas her harsher expression before it seems to say 'good work' and nothing else. If it was to make me feel satisfied, then it worked.

A mother she may be, she doesn't forget that she is my teacher, my _sensei_ , and prompts me to bring my feet together, bow to her and stand at ease.

"You did very well today, Gumball," Mom commends.

"Wait, does that mean that we're done for now?" I ask her, somewhat confused as to where she's going.

"Why, do you not want to continue?" She lifts one of her eyebrows, my confusion becoming hers.

"No, I'm just being sure. I'm not saying I don't want to continue." In fact, I'd go on until the middle of the night.

"Good to hear, because we have some more ground to cover. Shall we take a short break for now, or shall we continue?"

"I can continue," I declare, closing a fist for me to pump.

From now until the sun sets for the day, our lesson runs the remainder of its course. The pain may not cease, but neither will I. The road is shaping up to be long and difficult, nigh-unending, but I will traverse it. These are the words that I imprint in my mind. That I imprint in my chest. If ever my conviction is on the brink, if ever it dwindles, I will search for these words and utter them to myself so that I don't lose sight. So that I don't lose that conviction.

* * *

 _ **Author's note:**_

 _Turns out that Gumball is learning at a respectable pace. Remind you guys of anyone?  
_


	5. Persistent, aren't we?

_**The Carbon Copy**_

 **by Christopher R. Martin  
**

Chapter 5 – Persistent, aren't we?

* * *

The warm water streams from the tap to wash away the suds that have gathered around the kitchen sink. I rinse every glass, spoon, fork, knife and plate and leave them on the rack to dry. The feel of the water on the heel of my paws is cleansing, ridding me of the chaff inside my mind. After a day like today, I could use the relaxation.

Behind me, a pair of arms wrap themselves around me. From the deftness in their touch and the evenly combed pink fur, I deduce the identity of this person and nuzzle my cheek along the arm, allowing the embrace to engulf me.

Richard leans his face over my right shoulder and gazes at me with half-closed eyes.

"You could use a helping hand," he muses, laying a kiss or two on my cheek and the side of my neck.

Whatever his game is, I go along with it and pay his soft stare and kisses in kind by looking at him the same way. "I know," I tell him playfully so as to titillate his senses as well as mine. "This is a job for someone who's big, strong and reliable. But I don't know if you fit the bill."

"Are you kidding? I have all those three qualities," he mutters in oneupsmanship – to see who can outdo who in their teasing. "Isn't that why you have that ring on your finger, and why I have mine on right now?" He presents to me my left paw, which has my wedding ring, and his right paw, which has _his_ ring.

I never took Richard to be smooth with his words. Where and when did my husband get this sharp, snappy tongue? If he picked it up from someone, I should call them up and thank them.

"Show me," I challenge him, smirking in a way that could be mistaken for seductive.

"If you say so, darling."

He and I continue teasing each other. At first it's strictly in the realm of words, but it soon escalates to more physical, intimate levels. He'd reach out his paw and hold my wrist in order to 'help out' – half-jokingly and half-serious. He'd do it at the worst of times, too; he takes me in his grasp when I have a plate, glass or utensil and the sponge to scrub them with.

That only tickles my sensibilities even further. Soon enough, we lose ourselves in our playfulness. In the rapture. The suds and water spill out of the sink and onto my bare feet. Richard and I get a little too rough, and I fall forward, splashing most of that water onto us. I yelp from getting myself soaked, but our good-spirited fun stays intact.

Rather than going ballistic on my husband, I laugh amidst my wetness. In spite of my now-drenched shirt clinging to my skin and fur. In spite of the bubbly beard below and around my chin.

My shirt being as wet as it is, I turn around and lean on the edge of the sink, still laughing to my heart's content. Richard is no better off than I am; some of the water has found its way onto his face, too, and his sudsy beard is bigger than mine.

Only now do I find that my husband has his uniform on. The uniform that he had gotten from regaining his delivery guy job at _Fervidus_ _Pizzeria_. So far, the universe is in agreement with this change in the status quo. If the cosmos has no problem with that, there's no reason for me to.

I can say, with all the confidence in the world, that I'm proud of him. The fears that I had at first—fears that I never told him—have been abated.

"Richard!" I shriek, wiping the suds off of my face. "See what you do?"

"Afraid to get messy, huh?" Richard replies invitingly.

"Oh, you like that, don't you?" I dab my paws into the water and bare my teeth at him in a grin. "Then, here!" I flick my fingers at him, and he shields his face from the droplets with his arm.

He takes to the sink and proceeds to do the same, and he and I are locked in a childish exchange punctuated by plenty more shrieks and laughs. Back and forth we flick our dripping wet paws at each other. At this rate, our fingers are definitely going to get prune-y. In roughly ten seconds, he comes at me with arms wide open. He puts me in his arms, his own clothes now clinging to him.

A heat wells up in my chest, causing my heart to accelerate. In my want for a bit of relaxation, this excitement is more than I asked for. I put my arms around him, our laughter slowing down. I caress that pudgy, goofy face and become immersed in his gaze. The endearing childishness in them gradually transitions into that face of passion he had when he first came into the kitchen.

Our hearts synchronize. The heat in his chest burns as much as the one I'm experiencing right now. His breath washes over mine. So tantalizing… It puts me into a trance. An inescapable high. Not that I'd try to get away from it.

Then he leans forward, careful with how he handles me. I trust that he won't let me fall. My eyes flutter closed as our lips touch. As our tongues meet and pull. I'm on a whole new plane of being. High above ground. While my heart was just accelerating a while ago, this time it's speeding on a highway, with no stopping it any time soon. One paw holds his face, rubbing it in circular motions, and the other sits over his chest. It's warm there. It's pounding, like a drum.

I wonder when the last time we kissed like this was. I wonder if it had put the two of us in a temporary high like this one has. Potential differences aside, I'm sure that our feelings were the only thing that has stayed the same from then and now.

As our lips remain locked, Richard clasps his paw over mine. I peek at him with my left eye and notice that he does not even have to open his to know what he's doing or where he's taking his paw. It's second nature to him.

 _Yes_ , the unbridled 'me' screams. _More. Give me more, damn you!_

In our moment of passion, that irritating vibration from earlier today rustles my skirt. Richard pulls away, and I lift my body off of the sink. As I fish out the item in question from my pocket, my husband watches me with a pout on his face. Damn him! Damn these cute expressions that he can pull off and still work so well.

Taking out my phone, I resist the urge to fling it all the way to the wall on the opposite side of the house. A lot of people say that I'm stubborn, much to their detriment, of course. Yet it's got me thinking if my stubbornness is hereditary. This attempted call proves it right. What is wrong with this woman? What right does she have to insert herself into my life after I've removed myself from hers?

Who in the world does she think she is?

"Nicole?" asks Richard nervously, twiddling his thumbs. "Honey? Something wrong?"

"No. I'm okay, Richard," I reply, my answer unstable.

Knowing me better than anyone else, my husband picks up on my discomfort and walks me to the dinner table, where he pulls out a chair for me. "Leave the rest of the dishes to me." He fondles my cheek and then the corner of my eye, as if there's a teardrop there. There might as well be. Giving me a peck on the forehead, he goes to the kitchen and continues from where I left off.

The dishes might have usually been my chore, as are most of the other chores in this house, I'm glad for him taking the load off of my shoulders tonight. I'm grateful for him more than I already am.

It should give me the space that I need, the opportunity to answer this call. But if he believes that I will, I'm afraid he's wrong where he's concerned.

* * *

I turn the living room lights off and make it up the stairs to retire for the night. On my way to the hallway, I see the door to the kids' room slightly ajar. I spare a minute to enter and leave all three of them a kiss on the forehead. They may be getting less fond of it as they grow older, but just this one time wouldn't hurt.

First is Anais on the top bunk, who curls into a ball in her blanket. After her is Darwin, which proves to be tricky until I just kiss the surface of his bowl. For some reason, he seems to sense it anyway, because his mouth curves into a smile. Last but not least is my little man. My first born. He may not realize it, or if he does he might not believe it, but my pride in him outweighs my shame.

If there's one thing I've learned in my experiences that I want to pass on to my children, it's that every triumph, every accomplishment, that comes their way, big or small, are undeniably theirs. And nothing, no one, can ever take that away from them. The brief taste that I had this afternoon of my son's untapped promise is a badge that he can wear with confidence, with pride. I wouldn't at all be surprised if his accomplishes surpass mine.

Putting these musings to heart and to mind, I give Gumball a kiss on his cheek, and he lightly moans and turns in his sleep. I then continue on, closing the door behind me. Inside our room, Richard is already fast asleep, which is why I'm careful with how I open the door and how I enter. The air inside is filled with his snoring. His uniform hangs on the bottom of the bedframe.

Shutting the door, I take to the closet on ginger steps. There I slip out of my shirt and skirt, which I then cast to the side along with the other clothes that need to be washed, and into my nightgown. At my side of the bed, I lean over my husband's head and give him a kiss on his rotund cheek and then drift off myself.

I try to, anyway, but the vibrations of my cell phone return, pulling me out of my slumber at the last minute. Groaning, I take the blasted thing from the nightstand and read the screen. It's a good thing I set it to silent before coming in here.

For once this isn't a phone call. It's a courtesy text message from my service provider informing me about voicemails in my inbox. I call the number on the text and am astonished by the automated speaker saying that I have sixteen new voicemails. I'm tempted to get rid of them, but a tiny, meek voice in my head encourages me to listen to them. It spurs me on, and I heed its advice.

From the nightstand drawer, I fetch a pair of earbuds and plug them in my phone's headphone jack so that Richard won't be disrupted. I listen to the prompts and do as they instruct me to do. The oldest of these messages plays first.

It's her.

" _Are you there, Nicole? It's me. I actually tried calling you earlier today, but I didn't know what I should say. I might not even have had it in me to say anything. If you get this message, you're probably wondering how I found out your number. That's not important. What's important is…I just want to speak to you. One more time. I know that given all those years of resentment you've had against me, you won't be willing to give me that chance, but you're still my daughter. I don't want to live the rest of my life knowing that the wedge between us hasn't closed. I don't want to live another day thinking about how you hate me so much. If you still hate me so, I won't hate you in return. But I would like to hear your voice again. Please, Nicole. Please…"_

The sound of her voice speaking into my ear now leaves a different impression in me from when I heard it back then. Mother had my entire life mapped out for as long as I can remember. If I had known any better, she mapped it out since she bore me in her womb. When I was a child, I knew this much already. I would have learned of it even if she _hadn't_ made her intentions so pronouncedly clear. Still, I loved her dearly, believing that she had the best intentions in mind for me. And she did. I loved her and Dad fiercely, believing that their love for me was there, too, if not immediately apparent.

What a lie that turned out to be. What was their example of parental love? Forcing their child to make it to their karate tournament on foot? Checking on me every ten minutes as I poured countless hours studying, after proving that I've been consistently getting straight A's? Making me jeopardize my friendships in the name of being better than anyone else? In the name of a competition that might not have existed? That didn't have to exist?

I scroll through the rest of the messages. They're all from the same sender, my mother, and they're all the same. She's pleading for me to give her a call, and the more I hear her begging, the less I'm inclined to carry it out.

They're not completely the same, though. Around the fourth voicemail, she's figured that while she's on the phone, she might as well start something resembling a conversation and recaps on the good old days. In one of her messages, she mentions that one time when I was in a ball pit and I had pushed a random kid for pushing me in the first place. In another, she brings up my first karate lesson with sensei Yoshida and how he took a liking to me the instant I walked in.

These memories comprise the later messages, and I listen to them up until the tenth one. After that, I hang up, put the earbuds back to their original place and set my phone down on the nightstand. I switch the lamp off and pull the blanket up to my shoulders.

I close my eyes. Just before I drift off, my mother's voice pervades my mind. She's uttering words I'd never thought I'd hear from her. Words that I might have heard her say, but have forgotten down the road. Words such as 'well done, Nicole' or 'I'm so proud of you' or 'have a nice day, sweetie'. They ease my departure to the dreamland.

Perhaps my concern for them wasn't a coincidence. It wasn't an accident. Maybe. I don't know. I'll have to see her face-to-face, for the first time in forever, to confirm this. If I _ever_ do.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_

 _I'm planning on getting the first video reading out there by next week at the soonest. Stay tuned to my channel and my social media pages for that.  
_


	6. Gumball Watterson: Karateka

_**The Carbon Copy**_

 **by Christopher R. Martin  
**

Chapter 6 – Gumball Watterson: Karateka

* * *

"Did you really have to bring your gi to school today?" my little sister asks me as the three of us walk through the front door of our school, setting her sights on the gym bag that I've chosen to bring instead of my backpack. "You know what happened last time."

"Yes, I know, and so what?" I respond to her nonchalantly, shrugging my left shoulder. "If anyone has a problem with it, let them say it. See if I care."

"Glad to see you've developed some extra self-esteem, but maybe dial down on the sass?" says Darwin sarcastically, furrowing his brow as he looks at me.

Near the staircase, Anais breaks off from us to go to her own class, bidding us "See you guys later," as she walks up the staircase. Darwin and I stop at our lockers, where we fetch the supplies we need.

He finishes before I do; inside the gym bag is my karate gi and belt. I plan to have the gym all to myself so that I can practice what I've learned—what little I've learned so far. Here's hoping that no one in the faculty contracts an ulcer when I ask them later. I stow them away in the locker and fill the bag with my textbooks, notebooks and pencil. But it still leaves me with a lot of unused space.

The small preparations done and dusted, we head to class and make it literally a minute before the school bell rings. Inside, I see Penny sitting on my desk instead of hers, oddly enough. She's been waiting for me all morning.

"Morning, Gumball," she says brightly, waving a hand at me.

"Morning, my dear," I say in a lame attempt to act gentlemanly. She apparently likes it when I behave like a stiff. Does she like it ironically or unironically? That's my question.

Having seen this shtick of mine more times than he'd care to count, Darwin rolls his eyes and takes his seat. As if he's not above impressing a girl. I wouldn't put it past him, especially considering that he sees Carrie at her seat and waves his fin at her flirtatiously, but catches herself and lifts his head high to act suave.

Yeah, _I'm_ a try-hard.

"What have you decided on doing outside of school?" starts Penny, gazing at me from her seat.

"I'll give you a clue." I touch my paws together, one clenched into a fist and the other open, and give her a bow. "Any ideas?"

Penny chuckles. "That's really brave of you to return to karate, Gumball."

"Well, you know me," I reply, taking another stab at impressing her. "Bravery's my middle name." For good measure, I grin at her and wink.

"I thought your middle name was Trisha," Alan butts in, a conscious move to kill the mood between me and my girlfriend.

Miffed by balloon boy's interruption, I lean over my table and glare at him detachedly. "I'm sorry, does this concern you? Do I have to bring out my pencil and sharpen it?"

"No, no, carry on," blurts Alan, giggling nervously and shutting his mouth.

"Hmph! Thought so."

"Are you aiming to get to a certain belt?" asks Penny.

"I guess a black belt." To be honest, I haven't given that much thought. Though a black belt _does_ sound nice. It'd be great if I earned one legitimately.

Another interruption, except it's not from Alan. Otherwise, I would have definitely popped him. No, the person joining our conversation is Masami, hovering between us.

"Did I hear you say you're taking up karate again?" she asks me.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Is it _Yoshida-Ryu_?"

"Yup. Wait a minute. You're… Oh, of course! Why am I such an idiot?" I might never know why.

It had temporarily escaped me that the style of karate that I'm learning has the same name as Masami's family. She _did_ say that her mom, Yuki, and my mom trained under her grandfather.

Where does Masami in particular fit in this equation?

I guess she was about to tell me, because she expands her legs and arms and takes out a piece of paper from her backpack and gives it to me. There's a drawing on it of a man in a gi and a black belt throwing a kick against an empty orange background. At the bottom of this leaflet are the Japanese letters on the banner in the tool shed and on Mom's black belt.

It's a flier for an upcoming karate event – a kumite held by none other than her family's company.

"I hope you can make it," Masami comments. "It'll be a good experience for you."

"But I'm only at my white belt. I can't possibly go to this."

"Don't worry too much about it. The event's open to everyone, regardless of what belt they have."

"Will _you_ be there?"

Masami gives me a shrug. "Obviously. And so are my parents. We'll be overseeing the entire event from start to finish. Have a think about it."

The door to the classroom swings open for Miss Simian, cueing Masami to take her seat. While our primate teacher does roll call and other homeroom stuff, I give the flier a once over and rest my head on my fist. Then I picture the event itself, what it would be like. The scenario that springs to mind is that of a giant hall teeming with people around my age all dressed in karate gi's of their own and their parents looking on from the bleachers.

I put myself in that scene, nervous by these people surrounding me, but holding my ground anyway. Mom would be on the bleachers, encouraging me from afar. The outcome remains a blank in my mind to be filled.

* * *

Outside the teachers' lounge, I sit on a bench and lean on the wall behind me. The seconds tick away, and I spend them drumming my fingers on my knees and tapping my feet on my floor with no rhythm behind them.

Past the door next to me, a multitude of voices flutter by and fill my ears. One of them is the coach, who I just called for and had told me to wait out here for five minutes. It's been ten now, and still counting. I'm ready to get up and leave, but before I know it, out the door she comes, squeezing her cube stature through the frame. Why is she a gym teacher, again?

"Alright, Watterson. What do you need?" she asks, her hands on her… Well, I would say waist, but they're nowhere near close to reaching them.

Holding in my banter, I stand from the bench and look up at her. "I need to borrow the key to the gym," I say plainly, unabashedly.

"I can't just give it to anyone. Why do you need it for?"

"I just do. I wanna, um…"— _think, Gumball, think. Think of something good_ —"practice my basketball for a while. My free throw game could use some work."

"Hmm. You're right. About your terrible free throwing, that is." Out-of-shape _and_ blunt. Boy, she's the complete package, alright. "I still can't give you the key, but you can use the gym. Come with me."

The two of us begin the walk from the teachers' lounge to the gym, which is all the way on the ground floor. There she takes the key out of her pocket and unlocks the door. Inside, she leads me to the locker where all the sports equipment are kept and unlocks that, too.

She starts explaining where the basketballs are, but I stop her there and assure her that I can find my way around the locker. Once she's gone out the door, I ensure that I'm the only one in here and enter the locker room, where I slip into my gi and belt. I then set my bag down on the nearest bench and walk to the center of the gym.

I recall every single thing I learned during my lesson from yesterday. I start with the way I'm standing, spreading my feet to shoulder-width and clenching my fists. My stomach clenches as I shut my eyes and pay close attention to my breathing. Mom taught me her method of counting to four in my head, and I apply that method for myself.

At the end of my meditation, I put my paws up, bend my knees and move my feet to where they need to be. I hold my stance, my _datchi_ , setting a one-minute benchmark for myself, my back and neck straight and stiff as a board. My eyes are set only forward, on the plain, dull wall. Though she's not here with me right now, I picture my mother in her gi, walking around me in a circle, scrutinizing and correcting me if need be. Moving her mouth as if she's telling me what to do—what I've gotten right, what I need to improve—though she doesn't actually make a sound.

Time unwinds, and my legs are starting to burn. My core feels like it could collapse from the weight it has to bear. A sheet of sweat oozes from my pores and drenches my fur, growing denser each time I arrive at the benchmark and reset it. Still, I maintain my foundation. I urge myself to hold this stance for a little while longer. Before long, the pain becomes a part of me. It devolves into a sensation that I get more and more accustomed to.

It must have been five minutes since I've held this posture. I relax myself, shaking off my paws and my feet. My breaths thicker than normal, but still coming and going at the same pace. The concocted apparition of my mother stops in her tracks to commend me for a job well done.

My next exercise is my straight punch. I thrust my right arm out while also focusing on my form. Feet apart shoulder-width, turning my fist at the moment of impact, shoulders unmoving. The untapped power emanating from my core and erupting out of my fist surprises me yet again. I can only imagine what it would be like if my fists were to make contact with another person. That is, of course, if I train some more. _When_ I train some more. When this power is refined, transformed, into something more ornate. What I lack in size, I can more than make up in my own way.

Come to think of it, I did tell Mom that I can be the winner she always wants me to be. When I told her that, my emotions overrode my better senses. I was so angry at her for not allowing me to learn. So lost in the moment that I had to give her a valid excuse to justify my wanting to learn in the first place.

But I did mean what I said. I know I can be a better person than I am. I know that I can be so much more if I really applied myself. If I put my heart and mind to it. For instance, cooking is one of my favorite pastimes. When I'm in our kitchen whipping something up, be it a crème brulee or a tray of cookies or a scorching hot curry, I like to exert more than a hundred percent into it so that it comes out beautifully. So that anyone who partakes in what I've created can leave satisfied and wanting more. If I can be passionate towards cooking, if I can be proud of that, then I can direct that passion to other aspects of my life.

And if I take my karate as far as I can, it might just reverse the faults that I've made. The actions I've done that I'm not proud of. Whether it's disappointing someone I loved at every other turn or making a laughing stock out of myself or endangering myself or another person. Once in a while, I wish that I could conjure up that idiotic, apathetic and pitiful version of me and give _him_ a wallop. Knowing how crazy and out-of-control this town has gotten in the past, it could happen.

If I can fix everything wrong with me and come out stronger, better, wiser than before, then I won't ask for anything more.

These thoughts swirl in my head and give my punches extra weight, like gasoline poured into a fire. There _is_ a fire in my core, in my chest, and I let it out with one final punch and a resounding yell that bounces across the gym. The world around me stands perfectly still at the piercing sound of my voice.

Holding my posture for five seconds, I then bring my feet together and take a bow.

* * *

That afternoon, Mom and I are back in the tool shed. She ignites a match from a matchbox and lights up an incense stick that she brought into the shed for today. She places the stick in a jar, puts it near a wall and returns to her meditation.

The scent wafts around us, tickling my sense of smell. It's a sweet aroma that isn't sickeningly sweet. Inhaling it is purifying.

"Nothing quite like the smell of lavender, if I say so myself," Mom mumbles between her breaths.

Lavender. That's what it is. I thought it was more of a daisy-ish smell. But I'm no botanist, so…

"How was school today, Gumball?" asks Mom.

"It was alright. Masami gave me something that I think you should see." I quickly break from meditating to show her the flier for the upcoming kumite. I set it on the floor and pass it to her.

We meditate for thirty more seconds, and Mom picks the flier up and reads it. It doesn't elicit any kind of emotion from her. She holds on to it and gazes intently at me.

Mom rises to her feet. "Did she invite you?" she asks, dusting the back of her pants.

"Yeah." She lifts an eyebrow, to which I double-take and shortly after correct my mistake. "I mean, _hai!_ She said that anyone of any belt can come."

Reading through the flier again, Mom rubs her chin in thought. At least it got her to think. I suppose that's better than nothing.

"It's been a while since I went to one of these," she muses, a certain gloom creeping in from her voice. She must be reminiscing on her friendship with Yuki Yoshida. A strong camaraderie that was once broken and now whole again. I wonder if the two of them get in touch a lot lately.

I also wonder how much Masami resembles her mother. Given the highs and lows in the several instances we talked to each other, maybe more closely than she'd like to admit.

"So you want to go," Mom beams at me.

"Uh-huh." I give her a diligent nod.

"And what do you hope to get out of it?"

"I have no idea. I guess I'll find out when I go there."

Silence descends upon the tool shed as Mom and I meditate. All the excess in my mind, in my heart, vanishes as I breathe deeply, in and out. Every muscle in my body tingles and then goes still. The euphoria is made more powerful by the lavender aroma.

During our meditation, Mom casts a compassionate, if not wistful stare at me for what I can only tell is the last time until this lesson is over. She tilts her head to the side at a small angle.

"You know that I'm always proud of you, Gumball," she starts.

"No, I don't," I say matter-of-factly, which throws her off a bit.

"It's true. I don't show it a lot, but you, your brother, your sister and your father have made me proud beyond my wildest dreams. You've made me proud in your own way, my little boy. You may not think that's true, but it is."

"Really? I always figured that it was the opposite." After seeing her sit with her feet tucked underneath her, I do the same.

"I know why you want to do this, but I want you to take this to heart. What you accomplish in life, no matter how big or small it may be, is still an accomplishment. It's still worth being proud of. I will be proud of it regardless. Don't ever let anyone take that away from you. Understand?" The way she tells me all this, it's as if it's coming from first-hand experience.

"Thanks, Mom."

We nod at each other and then stand up. Our lesson begins as the one from yesterday did – with a bow and the initial focused stance.

To start the lesson off, Mom and I recap on what I've learned the other day – my _datchi_ and my straight punches. I perform them almost flawlessly, from the first, slow set to the second moderate one to the last and fast one, and cap it off with a fearsome yell. Or kiai as karateka seem to call it.

After that, she runs me through several new techniques. The first is an elevated straight punch. The same principle applies here: feet apart at the width of the shoulders, a straight arm for every punch thrown, shoulders and hips both unmoving, and fists turning at the moment of impact.

Next is an upwards elbow strike. Most of the same principle is in play once again, but the turning of the fist serves a different purpose: it's to avoid accidentally hitting yourself in the side of the head, which many beginning students usually end up doing. I can never nail these moves on the first try. Every time, Mom ends up having to bring up what I'm doing wrong, patting the part of my body that's off so I can correct it. I'm not saying I'm not open to being corrected, but I hope I can turn this around within a few lessons' time.

The third technique is a swift, but still fierce punch to the gut. This one move is set apart in that there is no fist-turning involved. The palm of your hand is always facing up. Mom describes it as an attack based on speed. Because I don't have to turn my fists, it's faster, but has less power than a straight punch does. Its use is to debilitate an opponent for a window of time, which can be used to regain composure or prepare another more forceful attack.

Every one of these techniques adheres to a pattern for an efficient way to learn them. Three sets of a number of repetitions, between seven and ten. A slow set to learn on the move, a moderate set to get a better feel for it, and lastly a final set where repetitions of the move are performed in quick succession, finishing with a loud yell, which supposedly is for more than just being intimidating. Hard to believe as it is, it gives an extra weight to an attack.

Mom commends me for my efforts and allows us a five minute break in which I fetch myself a drink from my water bottle. I'm about to sit down, but she tells me to kneel instead – the proper thing to do in a _Yoshida-Ryu_ dojo, or any school or dojo, for that matter, according to her.

"You look like you're done for the day," Mom jokes, her paws on her hips.

I chuckle at her remark and wipe my mouth clean. "Heck, no! I'm just getting started."

"That's what I like to hear. Okay, break's over. Up, up, up."

I let my bottle down carelessly and stand, dusting the front and back of my pants. Mom and I bow and go from there.

"The next part of the lesson is defense," says Mom as she clenches her fists hard. "Again, beginning students tend to overlook this, not realizing that protecting yourself is as essential as throwing a punch or a kick, if not more. _Yoshida-Ryu_ considers every part of the body to be of equal importance, and thus worth guarding. The blocking techniques I'm going to teach you are designed to protect specific parts of the body. Are you ready, my dear _gakusei_?"

" _Hai!_ " I shout, steeling my face.

"The first technique you will learn covers your head." Step-by-step, Mom illustrates the move. "You take your fist across to your opposite shoulder and bring your arm in front of your face and up to your forehead"—at the peak of the move, she spins her fist around—"like so. And when you bring your arm down, same idea as a punch. This covers many angles and directions aimed at your head, and that's the idea you want to adhere to. See, the head is very delicate. The skull may be covering the brain, but it's not built for protecting you completely. That's why you wear a helmet when you ride a bike or go roller-blading. You don't want too much pressure to be applied to your head." She does a few more blocks and returns to standing normally. "And it's your turn."

I heed my mother's command and perform the move. She approaches me and adjusts my form, steadily pulling my arm so that it's the right distance away from my forehead. That might be why I can't nail a technique down on the first move. In trying to perfectly imitate what I see, from an outward lens, I end up forgetting about my own form. I attempt to do a move without fully grasping what goes into the move. The proper technique behind it.

With my mother's guidance, I get the hang of the technique and coast through the sets of seven to ten repetitions breezily. At the third set, while Mom cues me in with her counting, I do my own counting in the back of my head – a decent method of familiarizing myself with some Japanese.

 _Ichi._ One.

 _Ni._ Two.

 _San._ Three.

 _Shi._ Four.

 _Go._ Five.

 _Roku_. Six.

 _Shichi_. Seven.

 _Hachi_. Eight.

 _Kyuu._ Nine.

 _Kiai juu_. Ten.

One more repetition and yell. Mom tells me to hold the pose with only her blade-like eyes. Those eyes that she uses on a daily basis, that people know and fear her for. I stay unmoving for as long as I can—ten seconds, twenty, thirty, forty—when she then commands, " _Yame!_ "

"That was good, Gumball," says Mom, her paws behind her back. Using those eyes to scrutinize me. "Just don't forget, arm away from your forehead."

" _Hai!_ "

"Shall we move on?"

" _Hai!_ "

The lesson runs its course all the way until sundown.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_

 _My apologies for updating the way I do, but I'm merely trying to adhere to a schedule. I want to space out the new chapters decently so that I can work on the story freely; 80% of it is actually done, as part of last year's NaNoWriMo, and the remaining 20% is still being written. Same with_ The Beginning _, which is why it hasn't been updated in a year, but will be updated soon._

 _On that note, I'll get the video reading for Chapter 2 done very soon, after I get my current projects out of the way first, that is._

 _\- C. R. Martin_


	7. Not what I expected

_**The Carbon Copy**_

 **by Christopher R. Martin**

Chapter 7 – Not what I expected

* * *

Tonight's supposed to be a run-of-the-mill Friday night. All five of us gathered at the living room, enjoying each other's company over a movie that one of us has chosen. It's Anais turn this week, and to no one's surprise, her pick is a film adaptation of her precious Daisy the Donkey.

Gumball and Darwin disliked it from the word go, voicing their objections for everyone to hear. Richard and I calmed them down and urged them to give the movie the benefit of the doubt.

But as it turns out, you can't always practice what you preach. Not even ten minutes in, my husband is bored out of his mind, passing out from the uneventfulness of the film. I'm no better, either, barely fighting to keep my eyes open. What an embarrassing example we're setting for our kids.

You can't really blame us, though. There really _is_ nothing happening in this movie. It's just its title character jumping from one situation to another, without context, without explanation, without sense. Someone has _got_ to make a complaint to the motion picture association of this country for this shameless corporate pandering. Kick their doors down, stomp inside their building and use a strong, loud, imposing voice to get the message across. Eh. That would be _my_ approach.

Oh, well. Anais sure seems to be enjoying herself, bouncing in her seat to the tune of Daisy's theme song, which plays—and I wish I were lying—every two minutes. Overwhelming boredom aside, the film isn't hurting anyone. And miraculously, Gumball and Darwin have lasted pretty long for a movie with no substance to it whatsoever. They even make the occasional passing comment about what's happening on-screen.

Not quite how I pictured tonight to unfold, but here we are. Under one roof, in one room. Close. Inseparable. It may not ever change, and that's okay with me.

Or perhaps there could be a few changes.

The doorbell rings in the middle of the movie. I gaze over my shoulder, wondering who would want to pay us a visit this late. Richard asks that exact same question, to which I answer with a shrug.

Standing up from the sofa, I cross over to the door and turn the knob, but immediately regret that decision. How… Why… What the heck…

"Good evening, Nicole," says an old, wrinkled cat with the same colored fur as me and Gumball. Her ears are pointed and drooping, and those eyes of hers are always narrow.

"Mother?" I barely get the word out, the breath forcefully pulled out of my lungs.

Her expression falters from hearing me address her for the first time in decades. She might even start crying _because_ she can't keep herself together. If she does, then she should have a pack of tissues handy inside that purse she's carrying. Or maybe a handkerchief.

This is definitely not how I remember her. This is not what she looked like when I last saw her. My memory of her is far bitterer. Far more painful.

"Sorry for turning up in such short notice," she says, the warmth she's displaying uncharacteristic of her. Not what I'd associate her with. If someone told me that this is another person under the guise of my mother, I'd believe it. She pokes her head past the door frame to get a cursory look at my family. "I see that you're in the middle of something. I didn't mean to bother you."

I doubt that. But that's not what I tell her. "You're not bothering," I say in an effort to be the better person between the two of us. "But you better tell me why you're here on my doorstep."

"Actually, may I come in first? It's a little cold out here, and I should have brought a sweater or scarf with me." I'll say. What was she thinking, coming out here at night with a sleeveless turtleneck top?

Rolling my eyes, I open the door wider and usher her into the house. "Come inside," I mutter, unenthused by her unannounced presence.

Mother walks inside on uneven steps, as if she knows that I didn't ask for her to come here. I'll give her credit for finding out where I live. I don't know how she did it nor do I want to, but when the woman is driven, she will go to great lengths – the _only_ good trait I inherited from her.

She wanders her head around, humming favorably at every sight she sees. I shut the front door and tend to my mother.

"I must say, Nicole, this is one nice house you have here," she states, probably as an act of flattery. No, that's not true. She really is impressed.

"Thank you," I say without a shred of emotion. They'd be wasted on her, anyway.

My family averts their eyes from the TV and looks on at us from their seats. The kids are perplexed, having never seen their maternal grandmother before. Richard, on the other hand, is as astonished as I am by this unceremonious visit by my mother. He has a distinct urge to say what's on his mind, but his gaping mouth and unbelieving eyes do the talking for him.

"Who's this, Mom?" asks Anais.

 _No one important._ The temptation for me to use that as my answer is strong, but I am above my temptations. I can be. I will be. And for good measure, I put on a cheerful front for the sake of my children.

"I don't think you've met before," I say to them with as much 'joy' as I can muster. "Kids, this is your grandmother from my side of the family."

Taking notice of this, Mother approaches the kids to greet them. Just thinking of it fills me with copious amounts of bile. But seeing it unfold before my very eyes has increased that bile a hundred fold.

"Oh, what do we have here?" says Mother warmly. "So these are my grandchildren. My, they're more beautiful than I imagined they would be. What are your names?"

"Anais," replies our baby girl.

"Darwin," says our adopted boy next.

"Gumball. Nice to meet you, uh," our oldest boy introduces himself last, waving his paw at her.

"You can call me Grandma Senicourt," says mother, affecting a modest and casual demeanor. "And it's very nice to meet you, too." She turns her attention to Richard, who is nervous at the sight of her. I don't know what he has to be afraid of. "And Richard."

My husband leaps from his seat and stands attentively, like a soldier being addressed by his commanding officer. "Yes, ma'am."

"You haven't changed one bit." Neither has she, but she doesn't realize it, nor does she care. "How's Jojo these days?"

"She's fine, thanks for asking." Now he's breaking a sweat. Over what? My overbearing, controlling, toxic mother? What can she possibly do to him without arousing my ire?

This idle chatter is starting to get on my nerves. I take my mother by her wrist and yank her away from my family in fear that her poison will spread to them. "May I speak with you in the kitchen? Mother?"

She does not get a word in edgewise. Not that I'd allow her. This is my house, and anyone who sets foot in it is subject to its rules— _my_ rules—including my mother.

I drag her to the kitchen and lean my back on the counter with folded arms. I fix my glare on her to prevent her from escaping. This is what she wanted. This is what those sixteen voicemails culminated to. And now that she has it, now that I'm giving it to her, she had better make it worth my while.

"No need to be so rough, Nicole," my mother whines, flicking her wrist to dull the hurt. What little I've caused it.

"Spare me the crap and start talking," I refute her, my words dripping with resentment. I soften my tone to keep this conversation between me and her. "What do you want from me? Why have you been calling me lately?"

Mother stalls on her answer by pacing here and there. She walks in circles for a good thirty seconds. So much time spent reaching out to me, retelling my childhood, salvaging the bright spots through those missed calls and voicemails, and when she's at long last given the opportunity to talk to me in person, she has absolutely nothing. I'm surprised that she's still standing, let alone walking, without a backbone.

Is she going to say something, anything, or not? For her sake, I hope she does. Otherwise, I will throw her out the door.

She lowers her head and sighs, her face riddled with difficulty. She closes her eyes, and when she opens them, they're swimming in tears. They threaten to fall down her cheeks, but they never do.

"I've missed you, Nicole," she declares, clasping her paws together. She steps towards me, but I avert my eyes from her, and she stops and backs off. _Don't come close to me_. "I'm sorry. I never wanted you to hate me, though I can't really blame you for feeling the way you do. You brought so much pride and joy to me. I never told you, but I truly was proud of you.

When is she going to wrap this up? The dishes aren't going to clean themselves, nor will my homework do themselves.

"It was because of that pride and joy that I got carried away. You didn't deserve what your father and I put you through. You deserved so much better. Obviously, Richard and your children filled that void for you. I understand that you hate me so, but I'd like the chance to prove myself to you."

I still do not look at her. I can stomach petty criminals, inmates, know-it-all tramps, disgraceful cowards and a gorilla of a teacher to a large extent. There is only so much of my mother I can stomach before throwing up.

As I look away from her and stare at nothing, Mother's knees give way and she's down on the floor. She lowers her head and does something I never would have thought she'd do: she starts sobbing.

"Please, Nicole," she pleads, her voice cracking. Broken. "I'm begging you. Please give me one last chance. One chance to be the mother you deserved is all I ask for."

Sorry, that ship is sailed.

It's too little too late.

Nothing you do can ever make things right between us.

You had your chance and you ruined it.

These are just a few of what I want to say to her. And even then, it would not be enough to exhaust the venom I've amassed over the years.

My disdain for her aside, I can't deny that she is still my mother. That she is still family to me. That if it were not for her, I would not be walking this Earth to begin with. I would not have what I have, go the places I've been, start a family of my own.

Reluctantly I face and walk towards her. I crouch down and offer her a paw to lift her up with. This is taking more out of me than I want it to.

"Come with me," I tell her as I lead her to the second floor. I lead her to the room at the leftmost side, the one that used to be Gumball's room but has since remained unused after he'd turned three years old. Mother enters the room, wiping the tears from her eyes. "You can stay here for as long as you need. Do you have any luggage with you?"

"I'm afraid this is all I have." Her response is not what I wanted to hear.

I sigh, annoyed, and think of a solution. "Fine. I'll provide you with a few of my old clothes. They're still good and should fit you."

Mother passes a smile at me and sits on the bed with her paws on her lap. "Oh, Nicole. This is awfully generous of you. I promise you, you will not be disappoi—"

"Let me make a few things perfectly clear to you," I cut her off, closing the door to the room. "You are under _my_ roof, and there are several rules that you are going to follow."

"Nicole…"

"I'm not finished," I impose myself on her, folding my arms, lowering my head and glaring at her. The sensation is therapeutic. "Number one, you clean up after yourself. The clothes you wear, the bed you sleep on, those are your responsibility. The only exception is tableware; either Richard or I will be cleaning everyone's dishes, utensils and glasses, and that includes yours. Number two, when you are expected to do something, I am not asking you. I am telling you. Number three, you will not act out of line around and towards my children and my husband. I want them to walk the straight and narrow, and I don't want you getting in the way of that. You have only _one_ chance. Three strikes, and it's over. Do we have an agreement?"

"Yes… We do," says my mother, her paws clutching and at the center of her chest.

"Good. If there are no further questions, I still have a lot to take care of. If you need me, I'll be at the dinner table."

Turning my back on her, I open the door and set one foot out. As I make my exit, I am stopped by Mother's last few words.

"Nicole?" she utters softly. I tighten my paw around the doorknob. If I can just leave her sight… "Thank you."

The only semblance of a reply I give her is a muttered groan. I close the door, then my eyes and lean back. I am not the only one standing in this hallway. This other presence with me is inches away from me.

Knowing who this person is, I crack a grin and acknowledge him. "How long have you been listening?"

"Ah! I, um… See, the thing is…" Oh, my goofy, inept but loveable husband. He has a bad habit of falling apart when someone calls him out or he's put on the spot.

"Don't lie to me, I won't hurt you." I lift my head up, relax my shoulders and take a deep breath.

"Well, erm…" He flounders for a while and then finally gets it out there. "Only all of it."

"I see." I make my way to the stairs.

"Honey?" attempts Richard, trailing me. I stop at the first step. "Are you alright?"

I can't bring myself to answer him, so I go down the stairs in the futile hope that he drops the topic. Like a good, perceptive husband—which he is—he follows me, suspecting that I'm not alright. And his suspicions would be right.

With no way to avoid the topic, I concede to his whims.

"I wish I were alright, Richard, but I'm not," I breathe, going to the kitchen for a glass of water. And also to avoid arousing my children's interest. I take a glass from the cupboard, fill it up at the sink, and down it in one go, though my mind is still cluttered. My chest has been turned to lead. "I didn't expect her to turn up at our doorstep. Were you?"

"No, I didn't," adds Richard, coming to my side with a vapid gaze. "Seeing your mother now is like the first time I met her. I couldn't move out of my chair if I wanted to until she was gone."

"I thought that part of our lives was over. I thought we'd move beyond that." And I couldn't be any more wrong.

"So did I. Wait, was she the one who—"

"Yeah." He was about to ask if my mother was the one calling me.

"And that's why you've been upset lately."

"Yeah."

"I see." Richard taps his foot on the floor to dull the tension in the kitchen. He turns his eyes to the ceiling and then to me. "That was a nice thing you did, Nicole," my husband smiles, placing his arm around my shoulders. "I'm glad that you two are making an effort to patch things up."

"I am _not_ patching anything up with that woman. I'm only giving her a chance. They're not the same."

Richard looks at me wearily, his mood deflated. That's just great. This night sure is going smoothly. I didn't mean to upset him.

"You should see Gumball, honey," I retry, hoping that this topic will lift his spirits up. "He's only a white belt now, but he's a quick learner. He's getting the hang of it faster than I did. He might even wind up to be better than me if he keeps this up.

"He's growing up to be a fine young man. Because of you." My husband pulls me into his arms and kisses me on the head.

"Because of _us_ ," I correct him, repaying his kiss with a tender graze on his cheek. He nuzzles me, and I shut my eyes to savor his touch. "Looking at him is like looking at a mirror."

"He takes after you."

"I know. That's why I'm scared."

"Why?"

"He shouldn't have to go through what I went through. I want him to live his life. I want him to make his own choices. I want to be the mother to him that mine couldn't be. But with the way he's going now, I don't think I'm doing enough. And now that my mother's here, it's gotten harder." I clutch my husband tightly, the urge to cry welling inside. I'm stronger than it. I can fight it. I will. I do. But for how long?

"Listen to me. You are doing just fine," assures Richard, rustling my head. "Like you said, you're a good mother. You're doing more than enough for him. They're our kids, not your parents' kids. They're in the right hands. Just because your mother's here doesn't mean she will take over."

"I hope you're right, Richard."

"I know I am. Let's just continue to be the parents we should be. Let our kids explore the world and guide them like we always have. Okay?" He touches my cheeks and gently pushes them together.

Comforted, I manage a smile that starts out fragile but affirms itself. "Okay."


	8. Quality Time

_**The Carbon Copy**_

 **by Christopher R. Martin  
**

Chapter 8 – Quality time

* * *

Another lunchtime in the school gym, another afternoon alone, practicing what I have been taught so far. Honing my skill, my technique, trotting further down this path I've set for myself. I asked Rocky to just pack my lunch so that I can eat it somewhere else, something that was never asked of him. Not when he was running the cafeteria. That's why my lunch is in just a brown paper bag and not a container. By now, all that food's been mushed together, barely recognizable from what they originally were.

Not that I care. I'll still try to eat it, anyway. And if it proves to be inedible, it's not any kind of loss to me. My hunger is secondary to the real matter at hand. Training.

Each punch, each kick and each blocking maneuver, I execute them with razor sharp precision. With every iteration of each technique I perform, the nuances behind them are imprinted in every part of my body. My bones, my muscles, my mind, my heart, my every internal organ. Likewise, the pain has become so natural that I can't really call it a pain anymore. Of course my body will ache, that's inevitable, but I've grown accustomed to the hurt that I can soldier through it and continue without the need to stop and catch my breath.

In the midst of my training, I reflect on a couple of things. One are the many instances of my being an idiot. Completely ruining Larry Needlemeyer's life just to win a lazy competition against Dad, being overwhelmed by the wealth of knowledge the Internet has to offer, and getting myself and Darwin lost in a dangerous forest are three notable instances that come to mind. Another are my less than graceful moments, such as the time I turned up at the Fitzgerald's house not realizing I was invited to a funeral for Penny's supposedly dead pet spider and not a date with her. Shameful moments that in reality I should look past, but wind up revisiting.

Those hideous memories come together to form an unsightly amalgamation. A disgusting creature buried in my consciousness that I will into existence. I stare at this monster dead in the eye and strike him down with my punches and parry his own attacks. He and I are locked into a struggle, and he looks down on me sneering. Demeaning me. Taunting me, as if I will never be more than what I am. More than what he is comprised of.

He does not really deal any blows on me, nor do I deal any on him, and at the end of my regimen, he returns to the concealed depths of my mind, back where he came from. Back where he belongs. The exertion I put in takes its toll on me, and I take many deep breaths. My growling stomach berates me for not eating early enough and settling for the slop that has now soaked the paper bag and the bench it's on top of.

In hindsight, it _is_ a bad idea. Some necessities are too great to ignore. That's what I get, and that's a price I'll gladly pay for now. Heeding my empty stomach, I head to the bench and dig my paw into the paper bag. It's so soft and mushy in there. I scoop up as much of the slop as my paw can hold and stuff it into my mouth. The thick texture of the peas and mashed potatoes and the crust of the sautéed chicken make for an appealing, if not weird combination. It's not half bad. Thank goodness for my cooking know-how and my refined palette. Otherwise, I would have thrown this bag in the trash.

In my gym bag, I fetch my water bottle and gulp down half of it. Putting the bottle back inside, I proceed to the locker room where I go for a quick rinse in the shower and change into my sweater and pants. Past the gym doors I go, taking the first step in sync with the ringing of the school bell. The entire Elmore Junior High student body begins the walk back to their designated classrooms.

I move along with the crowd. On the way to the same classroom as me is Banana Joe, who spots me amongst these other kids and skirts his way past them to walk with me.

"Yo, Gumball," addresses Joe, giving me a pat on the back. I don't mind the gesture that much and let him walk by my side. "I saw you coming out of the gym. You've been in there a lot these past couple of days. I thought you hated gym, next to the library, the science lab, the race track and… huh, I guess most of this school for that matter."

"Ha ha ha, that's so funny I don't know why I didn't laugh sooner," I respond sarcastically, darting my eyes to the side.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't understand my remark. He's thicker than cement.

"So what's up? Care to tell me what you've been doing in there?"

"Not much. I simply could use some alone time." In my defense, that's not totally a lie.

"Is that what the gym bag's for?" pokes the nosy yellow fruit, having no regard for boundaries.

"Pretty much."

"Hey, what's this white stuff?" _What the what?_

I try not to care in the slightest about his persistence, but as soon as he brings up my gi, I immediately move my bag away from him. I glower and snarl at him.

"Sorry," shrugs Joe, eventually coming to respect my personal space. But that lasts about as long as you think it does. "What the…"

Crap. I should have closed my bag properly.

Protruding out of the zipper is one end of my white belt. It has an orange strip on it, which Mom put on a couple of days ago. As a way of tracking my progress. She says that it means I'm at the halfway point of earning my next belt. That's why I'm starting to apply more of myself and why I've been neglecting essentials like food and water.

Or would have if I didn't think better of it.

Putting two and two together, Banana Joe's eyes light up, and he leaves his mouth hanging. "Wait a minute," he adds. He cracks a smile and laughs to himself. "Am I seeing this right? Will we actually see the return of the Karate Weiner?" He laughs again, and I repress the impulse to slice him in half with an open paw.

"It's not gonna work this time, Joe," I say resolutely as we come to the stairs and make our way down.

"Obviously. You really haven't learned a thing? Are you dense or something?" Hmph. It's hilarious hearing that question come from his mouth. "You're just going to fall flat on your face again. Literally. You'll be sorry about this."

At the next floor down, Joe enters the combination to his locker. He is unable to open it, though, and he whines that an object inside might be jammed against the door. He tries yanking it by the dial only to fall on his back and for his arms to dislodge.

He gets back up, and his laughter is now a nervous one. He's helping himself to a healthy dose of his very own words. "Eh heh heh heh heh. You don't see that every day," he remarks in the hopes that his mishap will diffuse.

He's eating his words now, but in a few seconds, he'll be swallowing them.

Rolling my eyes, I set my bag to the ground and roll up my right sleeve. I take a hearty breath, stand in my neutral _datchi_ and still my whole frame until my heart is the only one moving. Pumping blood into my veins.

My paw balling into a fist, I deliver a fearsome straight punch at Joe's locker. The impact leaves a crater-like dent on the door and causes it to fall off while forcing every other door in the row open as well in a domino-esque sequence. The entire school—well, this whole floor, anyway—is shocked into silence, and their eyes are soon on me, the only person here who is unfazed.

No one sees it, but this does faze me, too. The spontaneous surge and release of strength through the punch I just delivered. I've had this theory, this fantasy, in my mind, but to see it unravel with my own two eyes trumps that theory, that fantasy, on a three-to-one scale.

Over my shoulder, Banana Joe stares at me in disbelief. Awestruck disbelief as opposed to hysterical. By the way his mouth and eyes hang open, his heart has to be racing in that tiny chest of his.

Affirming my grip on my composure, I take the two halves of a broken pencil from the ground and give them to Joe to let him know what the cause of the locker jam was. Hoisting my bag on my shoulder, I lower my head slightly and go on my merry way.

Not without leaving him one last comment to remember this event by.

"Told you. Not gonna work this time."

My fellow students look on with equally puzzled faces. They are either scared or amazed. Every single one of them has been robbed of the ability, the will to speak. Their accelerated heartbeats vibrate along the ground, and travel to me and synchronize with the beating of my own heart.

One thing that Joe has gotten right, that karateka is back. Not the Karate Weiner, but the Karate _Winner_.

* * *

"Oh, come on, Mom. I've been doing so well. You said so yourself," I announce, startled by the news that Mom has just given me.

"Yes, I know, Gumball, and I couldn't be any happier, but even the best martial artist needs a well-earned rest," says Mom while she folds up pieces of laundry after ironing them. "Besides, your grandmother's here to visit, and she said that she'd like to spend the afternoon getting to know you kids better."

"You don't sound the least bit thrilled about it," I remark, noting my mother's disinterested tone when she speaks.

"That's because I already know her well, for better or worse." She mumbles that last part of her comment as if she's sneaking it in. "Today is about her, just like it's always been." She sure is into the habit of muttering half of her sentences today, like she doesn't want anyone else to hear them. "Why don't you go ask her where she wants to go? That way we can get this over with." Is she even aware that I'm standing in the same room as her?

Compelled, I obey my mother's instructions. But as I go and seek out Grandma Senicourt, there she is waiting idly at the doorway, dressed up and ready to go. Judging by her disconcerting smile, she might have been listening on the conversation and already decided on where to go and what to do.

I reel from the astonishment and regain my base. Her eyes are a pair of daggers that hack and slash my skin and lodge into my mind and my heart. When I look away from her, I cannot un-see them.

"Grandma Senicourt!" I exclaim, placing my paw above my thumping chest.

In the snap of a finger, she takes heed of my display of surprise and adjusts her face, reshaping it into motherly concern.

"Oh, dear. I am so sorry," she starts, shuffling to where I stand and checking up on me. "It seems that I got too excited for my own good. Are you fine?"

"Yeah, it's no problem," I chuckle the fright off and scratch the back of my head.

"Mother, please don't give my son a heart attack," interjects Mom, carrying the iron and the ironing board and returning them to their rightful place. "Haven't you done enough of that already?" I'm convinced that she's not aware of the other people under this roof with her, and that her mumbling doesn't work as well as she does. Or if she does, she could care less and wants everyone around her to hear her loud and clear.

Actually, considering that Mom dragged Grandma Senicourt—and quite roughly at that—into the kitchen last night to talk to her, I'm sensing that there's much more between them than what they let on. That they don't have the most pleasant relationship a mother and daughter can have. Besides a brief comment that Grandpa Senicourt—Mom's dad—went on to live for a hundred and two years, I've never heard her talk about her side of the family that often, if at all. Not that I have any business poking my nose where it doesn't belong, but you'd think that she'd make even the slightest passing mention every now and then.

Or maybe I'm wrong and they're just prone to petty quarrels that will blow over and be forgotten in short order.

Grandma Senicourt registers the comment and appears glum for a short while, but reverts to her elderly giddiness in no time.

"Never in my right mind would I consider doing such a thing," she rebuffs nonchalantly, flicking her wrist in a girly fashion. "As for where I want to go, the mall sounds like a good idea. You can never go wrong with that."

"Eh, I hate to break it to you, Grandma, but malls are…well, malls," I intrude, raising a finger. "You won't find anything in Elmore Mall that you can't find anywhere else."

"Nonsense. There's always something for everyone," she claims, which I don't refute. "In fact, last time I checked, isn't there an arcade in this town's mall? And maybe after that, we all can go for some Joyful Burger for dinner. On me."

The offer she pitches is appealing, I can't deny that. There's a new game in the arcade that I've been meaning to try since it came out two weeks ago, and I've been increasingly jealous of my classmates who've tried it for themselves.

But under this roof, I'm not the one calling the shots.

"Mom?" I beseech her, paws clasped and eyes dilating in the imitation of a dog's.

Even Mom can't resist it when I put on a cute face. She may be made of steel—or is she bionic?—and she may be resistant to a face like this, but she can and will succumb to my whims.

She does. She sighs and growls in an admittance of defeat, snickering at one of her very few weaknesses and my childish behavior. At least it's lightening up her mood, if only by a small margin.

"Go tell your brother and sister to get ready," she says, leaning on the wall by her shoulder.

"Got it," I answer jubilantly, racing past Grandma Senicourt and up the stairs. I open the door to our room, poke my head through the opening and knock on the door. Anais looks up from her ten-inch textbook and Darwin gazes from the swivel chair in front of the computer. "Get ready, we're going out."

"Where?" asks Darwin with a furrow.

"To the mall."

"Why?" joins Anais, clearly uninterested.

"Because Grandma Senicourt wants to go out."

"Really?" they ask in unison in kindred disconnect.

I groan and roll my eyes at them. "Stop with the questions already and get ready. We're leaving in a couple of minutes."

Back down the stairs I go to let Mom know that I've done as she's asked of me. She nods and beams, and then goes back to a phone call that I think I interrupted. She gives me the car keys and tells me and Grandma Senicourt to wait in the passenger seats while she takes care of her call with Dad.

* * *

The plan for the day is that for the next hour or two, the five of us split up and do our own thing. When that hour is over, we meet with Dad, who finishes his shift at Fervidus by that time, at the food court.

Mom and Anais have gone ahead to get some shopping done, which leaves me, Darwin and Grandma Senicourt. I take the lead, leaving Darwin to hold our grandmother by the hand, which annoys him.

Inside the arcade, the sounds coming from the machines play loudly in an odd kind of melody. A melody that touches on my sensibilities as a gamer. Darwin and Grandma catch up to me, and we walk to the counter. Larry Needlemeyer greets us with the dejection he usually shows us.

"Good afternoon, Watterson," he says tepidly, half-alive and reclining his head on the counter.

"We'll have the After School Special, Larry," I say in response, directing my finger at the sign with those three exact words written.

"How many tokens?"

For every five tokens you buy, you get one bonus token on top. That bonus is doubled on Friday afternoons, starting at three o'clock, and for the entire weekend.

"Make it twenty, please."

While Larry starts pressing the keys on his register, Grandma Senicourt takes her wallet from her purse and checks its sleeve for any bills and coins. Larry finishes with his pressing and forks over a bag of tokens. Twenty tokens plus the bonuses on top of that gives us twenty-eight total.

"How much does that come to?" asks Grandma, who continues to look for money.

"Fifteen dollars. Cash or credit?"

"Cash, thank you." She takes out a twenty from her wallet and passes it to him. Larry presses the register some more and gives her the five dollars in change. "Okay, boys. What do you want to play fir—"

I've already bolted to the machine before she can finish her question, leaving a streak of blue in my path. The cabinet is more beautiful in person than it is on the Internet. A six-foot tall, high definition screen, surround sound speakers, a headphone jack and the controls themselves: four square buttons with two small rectangular ones below and a pair of knobs on the far ends of the panel.

The title of the game is spelled out on many sides of the machine, not just its marquee at the top: _Noise Voltage: Harmony Highway_. Its developer and the logo also printed next to it: _Namiko_.

This is what arcade gamers have been buzzing about as of late. What my classmates have been raving about for the past two weeks. It makes my mouth leak out a waterfall. I'm seeing stars. Where has this thing been my whole life?

I could hug it. Kiss it. Fondle it. Say a few sweet nothings to it. But that would be pushing it, and might get me banned from the arcade. I guess the only thing left to do is try the game itself.

Darwin shares the same sentiment that I do, feasting at the mere sight of the cabinet. Mesmerized, he mutters the name of the game.

"Noise Voltage. Someone pinch me." I clamp his skin between my thumb and index finger, and he yelps out of pain. "Yeowch! I didn't mean it literally!"

I ignore him and move forward. Then I insert one token into the slot, but as I should have expected, it costs three for one game. The following eight minutes is sheer gaming bliss. The stunning, detailed graphics, the heavy techno music, the futuristic menus, the gameplay itself—juggling between pressing buttons and turning knobs to create my very own sound—it's heaven on Earth. It's Nirvana. If this is a dream, I don't ever want to wake up. If I've gone and died, I don't want to be brought back to life.

But I'm not dead, nor am I asleep. The game ends, as does my euphoria, when those three words flash over a pair of closing shutters: 'Thanks for Playing'.

"Gumball," calls Darwin, waving his fin in front of my face. "Gumball!" He says my name more times than that, and I break from my trance on the fifth time. "Can I have my turn now?" He gestures to the bag of tokens in my right paw. I give it to him, and he hastily puts three into the slot.

I sit on a bench by the window next to me, still recomposing myself from the experience. I finally got to play it. I got to play _Noise Voltage_. I think I found a new craving.

I don't notice her until five seconds after, but Grandma Senicourt sits by my side, nearly out of breath. "You kids are hard to keep up with," she states, wheezing for air. "But I managed to do it. You must be having fun if you're staring blankly into space. What did you play, sonny?"

I show her the machine as Darwin plays it. She's only mildly fascinated by it. It must be because this is nothing like what arcades used to be back in her day. They weren't this detailed. This immersive. This fun.

My composure fully restored, I sit up from my slump and tuck my legs inward. "Wanna give it a try?" I invite Grandma Senicourt. "I promise you're going to love it."

"Oh, no, I can't," says Grandma, shaking her head and waving her paws. Preferring to just sit by and watch. "This is a little too far out of my comfort zone, thank you."

"That can't be true. Here, Darwin's almost finished. Hey, Darwin!" I holler my brother's name, and he faces me with rainbows painted on his eyes and spilling from his mouth. They drip down to the floor and create a colorful and glittery, yet messy puddle. "Grandma Senicourt's gonna have a turn now." I pull her from the bench gently, unlike Mom.

"Gumball, please, it's fine." She pulls back.

"Oh, come on. Just one game, and if you don't want to play again, that's alright."

"Alright, if it will get you to stop begging," Grandma Senicourt concedes. I insert the tokens and guide her through the menus, explaining how certain parts work, what button to press and so on.

It's as if I'm helping an elderly person cross the street. She gets the hang of the machine in time and enjoys herself like I knew she would. I still have to help her when picking a song for her to play. She's no pro, but then again, neither am I. Her enjoyment is all that matters.

The three of us take turns with the game, sometimes meeting an early game over, and in my case, raging at the game, my mouth foaming as a result. Darwin and Grandma Senicourt would then have to restrain me until the foam in my mouth dissipates and I've calmed down. And once my own rage settles, the other two would throw their own bouts of fury, leaving me to do the calming down for them.

Nevertheless, it's in the spirit of good fun. At one instance, a crowd gathers around our grandmother during one of her sessions. Either they're amazed that someone as old as her can play a video game decently, or they act like they've never seen an old person playing a video game before. As if it's a rarity, nowadays. As if a family, a pair of kids and their grandparent, spending time together in an arcade—scratch that, spending time together, period—is a rarity.

We're down to our last four coins, which gives us one more play. I put three of them into the slot and before I hit the start button, Darwin catches my wrist and nudges his head to where Grandma Senicourt is standing. He's trying to tell me to let her have this last play since she's only visiting us and won't be staying for very long.

At first, I don't want to do it. I pry my wrist from my brother's grasp and reach for the start button. Then I see my grandmother, who pays no mind whatsoever and encourages me to go ahead and play. This isn't a way for her to guilt-trip me or anything like that. She gently pushes me closer to the machine.

But I don't press the button. As much as I really want to, I step to the side and mirror my grandmother's smile.

"Here, you can have it," I say, ushering her to the cabinet. Before she can air her objections, I add, "I insist."

Grandma Senicourt accepts and presses the start button. I guide her once again through the menus, selecting the songs for her. The first two I choose are ones that she's already tried, while the last one is a completely new song. It throws her off, but she barely scrapes a pass, with only a sliver of the life gauge remaining.

She laughs off her poor performance, and I laugh along with her. She rustles the fur on my head, having enjoyed her time with us. Out the window, I see Mom passing by with the groceries in her hands, watching inwardly with a stern look on her face. No one else notices, and the three of us leave the arcade and meet her at the entrance. Even when her own daughter acts this harshly towards her, her enjoyment doesn't slip.

We then head off to the food court, where we find Dad standing at the center, waving at us once he spots us. He pulls out a chair from underneath a table that he's reserved for us. Mom plants a kiss on Dad's lips and sets her shopping down on the bench.

"Okay, kids. Pick whatever you want for dinner," says Dad, grabbing his wallet. He proceeds to give a fifty between us three kids, but Grandma Senicourt has another idea.

"That's alright, Richard," she interrupts, fishing out a fifty from her own wallet. "It's on me." Dad's eyes light up from the thought of someone else buying food for him; kinda weird of him, since Mom does that literally every day. "Not for you, though." Just like that, he's deflated, his rabbit ears drooping. "I'm kidding. Here you go."

She hands him a ten and a five, and he rushes off. She gives Mom the same offer, but Mom shakes her head and folds her arms. "I can pay for my own food, thank you," she replies coldly.

"I see," says Grandma Senicourt, swallowing her daughter's words like a bitter pill. "Well, let's go get something to eat, then."

Not showing the slightest bit of relent, Mom shoots her down yet again. "Just stay here and watch over our table. I'll buy your food for you. What do you want?"

"Surprise me, dear." Grandma Senicourt smiles, taking the bitterness in stride.

"Fine. Come on, kids."

Without objection, my brother, sister and I walk with Mom around the food court. As we pass one stall and then another, I can't help but spare a momentary look at my grandmother. She sits on the bench with her head lowered and her paws tucked under the table. Any remains of a smile she had before has been wiped away.

I then fix my eyes on my mother, who watches where she's going with a set of knives for eyes. She doesn't realize that she's clenching her bills so tightly they're crumpling. Darwin and Anais are busy looking at the stalls to even notice or care.

And it might be for the best that they not involve themselves in this. Whatever Mom and Grandma Senicourt had in the past, it can't be anything pleasant. I'll be darned if Darwin and Anais get entangled in this and end up getting hurt in ways they've never even thought of.

As for me, I think I have more of a right to know than either my brother or sister. Mom dotes on the three of us. She puts our happiness, our well-being and our future above her own, and though we don't always agree with her parenting, she does what she does with our best interests in mind. The woman will take on an entire army if she has to, and I guess she _has_ done so before, and will do so again in the future.

Though she cares for this family, part of me believes that she's especially doting towards me. Following me around school for one day because she thinks she hasn't been giving me enough attention, pushing me so hard to become a winner to the point of stranding me in the middle of a desert, trying to console me after I had accidentally cracked Penny's shell, they're just a few of many instances where her motherly instincts towards me shone through. Where she acted on more than just her instincts. Maybe it's because I look so much like her or because I was born first. I don't know, I can't explain it.

Whatever her reasons, her motivations, may be, it might have something to do with what she and her mother have been through. It's a part of a cycle that must be ongoing in the Watterson family. A cycle that has led to frustrations, heartaches in the past. And that cycle has repeated itself, is on the verge of repeating itself, with me.

That's what I assume, anyway. This is lame. Twelve years of being alive, and I still don't know everything about my mother. It's as though I don't know _anything_ about her. I wish I do. I wish I could. If I could, if I involved myself into this affair, if it meant finding a way to break this cycle before it's too late, then I would.

For now, the best that I can do is to continue this path I'm going. To prove to my mother that I can be the son that she deserves. To live my life as much as I can, as if it were to end very soon.

This, I know, is what she'd want. I know this is what I'd want, too.

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_**

 _Now that Comic-Con's over, I'll finally get that video reading done in due time.  
_


	9. Loose Ends

_**The Carbon Copy**_

 **by Christopher R. Martin  
**

Chapter 9 – Loose Ends

* * *

I slather the cushion with my makeup and dab it on my cheeks, first my left and then right. Last comes the cardinal-colored, raspberry-scented lipstick, which I apply deftly, liberally, and put away in my purse once finished. A few more inspections of my sides, and I move away from the mirror.

Meanwhile, Richard is struggling to slip into his pants—again—to which I groan and pinch the bridge between my eyes. My husband isn't what I'd call in-shape, but it's ridiculous that he can't fit himself into a one-size-fits-all pair of pants. But unlike our parent-teacher meeting with Lucy—I'll be damned if I have to call that baboon 'Ms. Simian'—he is _not_ going out tonight pantsless.

"Here, let me help," I approach him, grabbing both ends of his pants and pushing his abdomen in. "Tuck your stomach in, honey."

"I don't know if that's gonna work," objects a doubtful Richard, hard of breathing as I force his pants up.

"It will, just do as I tell you," I prod him, making it past his waistline. I pull the two ends together and button them up. "Breathe, Richard, breathe!"

"Trying…to…breathe," my husband rasps.

I almost do his zipper up, but I use too much force when I pull. Richard loses his balance and falls on the bed, taking me with him. The both of us yelping and shrieking. I land on top of him, and the first chance he gets to breathe, he laughs. And I laugh along with him, slapping him playfully on his chest.

"Look what you made me do," I giggle, resting my forehead on his. "This was tailor-made for you, y'know?"

"Sorry," is the most he can say, his laughter getting the better of him. "At least it's not snapping off."

We laugh some more and almost forget about our plans for today. It takes my mother unceremoniously entering our room to make me remember, but in doing so, she causes Richard and me to bump our heads together. I rub away the hurting with my paw, and he gets up and stares at her awkwardly, searching for an explanation even though he doesn't owe her one.

"Oh, my," the woman remarks, her paw an inch away from her lips. "I apologize, I should have knocked."

"You think?" I reply lividly, rubbing my head three more times and then getting up. "What is it, Mother?"

"There's someone at the door. It's that Yuki girl that you used to be friends with and her husband."

"What? She's already here?!" I pull Richard off of the bed, fasten his tie for him and drag ourselves out of the room. "They said they'd pick us up early, but I didn't think it'd be _this_ early."

As we hurry, Mom adds, "I hope you don't mind, but I told them to come inside. They're in the living room."

"Okay! Thank you!" I shout at her to keep her quiet. If I have to hear more of her voice, I'm really going to lose it.

We dash through the hallway and down the stairs. The kids are at the dinner table, where Anais lends Gumball and Darwin a helping hand with their homework. We go on to the living room, where, as my mother described, the Yoshida's are waiting. Yuki is seated on one end of the sofa with her legs crossed and her hands on top of them, while her husband is at the middle, arms folded. I don't see him that often, but from the few times that I've met him at the Rainbow Factory, it would appear that he's a man who thrives on punctuality. That's what I deduce from his calm, closed body language.

As soon as they see us, they bow to us, as they feel is customary for any and every circumstance – a common trait amongst the Japanese that is worthy of admiration. Richard and I do the same after I prod him into doing so.

"Nicole-san, Richard-san, how nice to see you," accosts Yuki, who's wearing a black, silken dress that really shows her well-built frame.

"Same to you, Yuki and Mr. Yoshida," I respond, going stiff not of my own choosing.

Yuki catches this and chuckles. "Relax, Nicole. We're not in a dojo, we're in your house, which I must admit is rather nice. I have never been here before, although I hear that my husband has."

" _Sou desu ne_ ," starts Mr. Yoshida, who wanders his eyes with unease. "But I recall that the last time I was here, your children were embroiled in a bit of tomfoolery with Masami." He holds his hips and quirks his eyebrows curiously, sternly.

" _Nani_?" asks a shocked Yuki.

"What?" I include.

Yuki and I glare at Gumball and Darwin, who've overheard Mr. Yoshida's recollection. Their only reaction is to nervously chuckle and sweat buckets. Anais eyes them with equal disappointment and annoyance, and then palms her face and shakes her head.

The two boys then sigh, admitting their guilt.

I anticipate that they have a long-winded explanation as to what they and Masami were doing and why, so I tell them before they can utter a single word, "We'll talk about this when we get home. I am really sorry about what happened, Mr. Yoshida."

"I'm sure you are," Mr. Yoshida replies. "Shall we get going?"

"Yes, we should," Yuki agrees, checking her stunning designer watch. "We don't want to be late."

"Late for what?" I ask her.

"It's a surprise."

When Yuki invited me and Richard to dinner, she informed me that she and her husband were going to pick us up from the house. A couple of days ago, she called me again and told me about a few small change of plans, and that they would pick us up in the afternoon instead of the evening.

Obviously, these changes wouldn't be as small as she says they are, otherwise they wouldn't arrange for us to be picked up earlier. I get the feeling that Richard and I are in for more than just a fancy dinner.

"Shall we get going?" asks Yuki, getting her purse from the sofa.

The four of us then make for the door, but not without me taking care of one last thing. Just when I need her, there she is walking down the stairs.

"Leaving already?" my mother inquires.

I nod and then say to her with much reluctance, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm counting on you to watch over the kids. Can you do that?" _Can you act like a parent for once and not like the perfectionist you always are?_

"I'll take good care of them," she assures, which leads to me breathing, like I'm taking a huge risk. I hope this isn't the case. I honestly hope that I can rely on my mother for once in my life. "Trust me. Now go, have fun."

She doesn't have to tell me twice.

After waving goodbye and blowing kisses at the kids, Richard and I exit the door and walk across the lawn. The Yoshida's have gone ahead, waiting in the passenger's seat of their limousine, the driver holding the door open. We sure didn't see this coming.

"Mr. and Mrs. Watterson," the driver hails us in a pronounced French accent. I enter first and then Richard. "Enjoy the ride."

To say that this is nothing like a regular car would be a huge understatement. Everything about a limo just screams sophisticated, from the seats that face each other to the smooth touch of their leather surfaces to the adjustable lights to the sunroof to the cylinder stool in the center to enjoy a nice drink over. The easy-listening music is the cherry on top of a slick, sweet and stylish cake.

I have to be dreaming. I must be. The closest that I've come to riding a limo is picturing what riding in a limo is like, and needless to say that it doesn't hold a candle to the real thing.

Yuki and Mr. Yoshida are seated facing us, Yuki in particular smiling at me and Richard, crossing her legs and resting her arms on top of the backrest. This is the surprise that she's had in mind.

"Are you comfortable, Nicole-san and Richard-san?" she asks, commanding an aura of class and discipline.

"Uh…" That's it. That's all I can let out of my mouth.

"I would take that to mean 'yes'. What do you say to a nice little drive around Elmore before our reservation for tonight?"

"Yuki, I… I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to think too hard about it, Nicole-san. For the sake of our friendship, it's the least that I can do."

I stall on my response, and I give her the one she wants to hear. The one that I mean to say. "Alright. Thank you, Yuki."

I was asking myself why Yuki would allow me and my husband to partake in a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity such as this. Since receiving her invitation a few days ago, I was curious to know what drove her to approach me on these extravagant fronts.

The second she mentioned 'friendship', I had it figured out. Mostly. Of course, I already had a hunch. I guess the right way to put it was I was curious to know if there was a sincerity behind her offer. Her saying that word was the confirmation I was looking for.

One possibility that I consider is that this must be her way of bridging that gap, of repairing what had been broken before. I want to tell her though that she doesn't have to try so hard. That though she may think she lost me as a friend, I never thought of her as anything other than a friend.

Another possibility is that there is nothing else to her offers but as a way to buy me back. To be honest, I don't know why I would ever consider this. I know Yuki better than that. She was the sister that I never had. I know her better than to be shallow.

Then there's a third possibility. Like any other best friends out there, like any other _sisters_ out there, we're always so eager, so ready, to share parts of ourselves. It's likely that Yuki wants to share a part of herself with me, with us. Even with her wealth, a get-together here and there is a nice change of pace.

We all drive from one part of Elmore to the next until we've covered virtually the entire town. Along the way, we partake in menial conversation, bringing up whatever arises in our minds. Yuki makes mention of her recent trip to Europe, while Richard talks about his experiences working as a pizza delivery person. Mr. Yoshida might blurb about a new employee or two at the factory, and I could then mention my study load at Elmore University. There's no rhyme or reason as to how these topics switch between each other, not that there's any need for them.

Our time together is enjoyed over an expensive-looking champagne conveniently stored in a mini-fridge in between Yuki and Mr. Yoshida. The bubbly texture takes a bit of getting used to, which I really can't. Not as much as my boss and my childhood friend. Nevertheless, I sip my drink so as to not make them mad.

Richard seems to be liking it if his casual sips are anything to go by. As he downs his drink, his breath becomes strong and noxious. I persuade him to mind himself as he drinks.

We talk some more about this and that, myself and Yuki on the verge of getting tipsy. Seeing this, Mr. Yoshida proceeds to take the glass off of his wife's hands, but she protests. She moves her glass away from him, but spills some of her drink in the process. It doesn't land on her dress, thankfully, landing instead on the carpet.

"That might be enough for now," she says with some sobriety, fitting her glass in a holster on the stool. " _Sumanai_ , darling."

Mr. Yoshida chuckles to himself, hiding his irritation at his stained carpet. He keeps himself in check and asks me, "So Nicole-san, will you be at the next Yoshida-Ryu kumite?"

"Hm?" I ask absently, swirling my sparkling drink.

"Our daughter told us that your son has recently been studying the art under your supervision," Yuki includes, her intoxication suddenly having disappeared. "I would assume that she gave him a flier for the kumite during school."

"Yes, she did. Gumball also told me that Masami encouraged him to come by."

"So she did." Yuki touches her chin. "And likewise, I would like to ask you, Nicole-san, if you can come. It would be an honor to have you there and train side-by-side with you once more."

Her words prompt a flush to rise on my face. Amongst our peers, Yuki and I were regarded to be the finest students to ever learn Yoshida-Ryu. But between the two of us, the others always regarded me as the better karateka. I didn't act on any of their claims that I was better than Yuki because I didn't believe that. If anything, I was the one who admired her. She was a spitting image of her father, the founder of her family's form of fighting, and embodied his own tempered will. Even if she didn't have the fortune she has now, she'd still have so much going for her. She'd still command respect from those around her, including me.

To hear her say what an honor it would be for me to be at the kumite, to train together as we used to back then, it sends my heart afloat. My stomach transforms into a myriad of butterflies.

I ponder on this with favor, but there is one other thought that pervades my mind. This one, I ponder with reservation. That thought is of my son, my flesh and blood. My greatest treasure, my greatest source of joy. I have already taken a gamble by allowing him to learn about Yoshida-Ryu. His incredible progress, his dedication, his passion, beat by beat, I'm seeing myself, who I once was, all over again. And I hate it. The path I've taken doesn't have to be his, too, but since he's so adamant about this, there isn't much I can do.

Richard puts my paw between both of his, and he and I stare into each other's eyes. His smile is one of encouragement. As if to say 'don't worry', 'it will be okay' or 'you can trust your son to do the right thing'.

"I'd be happy to come, Yuki," I give her a reply. She enacts a bow, and I repay her in kind.

Our chatter and our ride continue. The limo takes us to wherever Yuki tells the driver, Perry, to take us to, only stopping once at a gas station for a refill. When the sun begins to set, Yuki orders Perry to drive up to the highest lookout point in Elmore – the place where Richard and I nearly kissed, but couldn't because of our car rolling downhill.

The four of us step out of the limo and watch as the sun descends to make way for the moon. Richard leans forward on the railing, admiring the view. Mr. Yoshida joins him and shares a few words with him. They appear to be getting along just fine. Yuki and I are a little farther away from them, marveling at the scenery in our own way. She sits on the railing, unafraid of the height.

" _Sugoi ne_ ," my old friend comments, the breeze deftly blowing her hair back. "This is what it should have been like from the start: uncomplicated."

"Mmm," I concur, breathing in the crisp cliffside air. "Hey, Yuki."

" _Nani_?"

"You seem to want to bury the hatchet, and you're doing well at that, might I add. How do you do it?"

An odd question to ask, I know, and Yuki agrees, evident in her countenance shifting. She holds her hair back to keep strands of it from flickering into her face. "It was never always easy. In fact, it started out difficult. I won't lie about that. For a while, all that ever mattered to me was being better than you. I cared more about settling our score, about tying those loose ends more than anything. I might have also hated you for a time. Actually, I did. I was so driven to be the one to shoulder the legacy of our family. _Chichi-sama_ wanted that from me. He expected it. Out of those expectations and fear of disappointing him, I grew to hate you. But y'know what, Nicole?"

"What is it?"

"That wasn't the way to live. My father told me, in his last breaths, that as much as he wished for me to carry that heritage, simply knowing that I am living my life the way I hope to is enough for him. He put my happiness above his. I understood what he meant, but never really took it to heart. It took nearly getting ourselves and our kids killed to get a firm grasp of that. It took almost losing myself and what I hold dear to me to snap me back to my senses." She tilts her head down, burying her face in shame. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason in particular. Thank you, Yuki, for being honest with me."

"Anything for a friend."

'No reason in particular'. That's what I leave her with, and nothing more. I don't have it in me to let her in, or anyone else, for that matter. Those wounds don't need to be aggravated.

"Time to get going. We don't want to be late for our reservation," Yuki declares, walking ahead to the limo. I follow suit, and our husbands do the same.

The restaurant in question is a fifteen-minute drive from where we are right now. We might have arrived a little earlier than that, though; according to my phone, we have ten minutes to seven o'clock. The Yoshidas exit the limo before Richard and I do, and upon beholding what the restaurant is, I feel the breath being forcefully yanked out of my lungs. This is a well-renowned French restaurant reserved for the highest of the upper crust. Not really, but you won't see anyone of a lesser social standing dining here anytime soon.

I guess except for Richard and me just this one time.

After giving Pierre some money for his own dinner, Mr. Yoshida leads the way, opening the door for his wife, and Richard following his example by letting me inside first. The maître d', Larry, says his hellos to the Yoshida's, but greets me and Richard with shock and aversion. He groans to himself, lamenting that no matter where he goes, there will always be a Watterson at every other turn to totally ruin his day.

Yuki provides Larry with crystal clear instructions, and he hands us a menu each. He ushers us to our table, affecting professionalism despite his most unexpected, and likely unwanted, customers.

We promptly seat ourselves at the table. I wander my eyes to every inch of this establishment, immersing myself in this atmosphere. This ambience. The slow-paced piano music, the neatly-dressed customers and their indecipherable chatter, the fresh scent wafting from the kitchen and into my nose. I can feel my mouth watering from the smell of what I presume is a lobster dish being masterfully prepared by the chefs. Looks like I know what I'm getting.

Larry returns to our table bringing for us a basket of croissants. Richard wastes little time in digging in, to the horror of the other customers. Fortunately, he wises up and calms himself. Mr. Yoshida is dumbfounded, but Yuki giggles at him.

"Be careful, Richard-san. You just might end up eating the table cloth," she banters.

"Sorry," says Richard abashedly, his cheeks flushed in embarrassment. He presents one of the croissants to Yuki, but she cordially declines. Then he shows it to Mr. Yoshida. "Here, sir. You can have it."

"Perhaps I'll pass," my boss responds, cringing. He faces me and asks, "First time here?"

"Yes, sir." I bow to him. "I apologize. My husband can't help but get carried away at the sight of food."

"I can see that. You and Yuki must have had…quite the intriguing history."

" _Yare yare_." Yuki shakes her head, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Says the one with a big stomach. Honestly, sometimes I wonder why you aren't a nimbus."

"What are you talking about?" refutes Mr. Yoshida, going on the defensive.

"You know very well what. Tell me that what I saw was your lip and not a mustache made of frosting."

"That was one time, Yuki. One time. You know how it is with me, I like to eat away my sorrows, and…" Mr. Yoshida sheepishly sways in his seat, his cheeks bright red. "It just so happened that there was nothing else in the fridge but that cake." His eyes begin to dilate, and he forms a goofy looking smile as he blankly stares into nothing, a strand of drool streaming out of his mouth. He then muses, "That delicious, thick, moist, boysenberry cake with the strawberry frosting and the processed flowers and—"

"That cake took me four hours to bake!" She huffs at him, turns her back on him and folds her arms.

"Come on, Yuki. I said I was sorry," says Mr. Yoshida sweetly and playfully, laying his arm around her. "How many times do I have to apologize?"

Yuki is an immovable tower of frustration and disappointment. Richard and I laugh from watching their little quarrel.

Coming to the rescue is Larry, holding a pen and pad. He clicks his pen and asks for our order. Yuki orders the Ratatouille, Mr. Yoshida the cheese omelet—or the _omelette du fromage_ as it says on the menu—Richard the Coq au Vin, and myself the Lobster Thermidor. For the drinks, Yuki orders a bottle of Calvados after asking for my preferences. Larry then scurries off to pass the orders on to the kitchen. One waiter appears in his stead rolling a cart with the apple brandy bottle cooled off in a bucket of ice, which he pops open and pours into our champagne glasses.

I relish the beverage as it caresses my taste buds, making the most out of the apple flavor. The other three are partaking in their drink at a slower pace than I am, taking casual sips as opposed to my decisive swigs. In short order, my head turns heavy, and so do my eyes. My vision would blur, then normalize, and repeat the processes in an unending cycle. People start passing me unpleasant gazes from having to bear with my unhinged belching.

"Now, Nicole-san, don't get ahead of yourself," advises Yuki, who in my eyes flashes in the colors of the rainbow, and bends into unnatural contortions. "Our food hasn't arrived yet."

"Oh, don't mind me, dearie. I'm just…admiring the view." Any control I've had over my words, and the rest of my senses, has left me. What the heck am I even saying?

"Nicole, honey, put the glass down," says Richard, tenderly grabbing my arm and removing my glass from my paw. He fixes me up a glass of water and pours it into my mouth.

It's somewhat helpful, but not quite. _Come on, Nicole, get yourself together. Not in front of your friend and your boss._

A hiccup or two later, and I'm back on planet Earth. Just in time for Larry to stroll by with a cart holding our food. He passes us our respective dishes, handling mine with extra care. After he leaves, we dig in. No wonder this place is so well-known across Elmore, and perhaps even across the country. Everyone in the table is in a state of bliss, not just me. Well, not so much Yuki and Mr. Yoshida, seeing as they've probably been here more than once, but Richard and I can't get enough.

The Calvados on top of this food makes it even more complete. This is one kind of recipe I could try next. A recipe that Gumball himself can try for himself aside from desserts.

That reminds me, I wonder what the kids are up to tonight. I wonder if their grandmother is being a nuisance to them or, dare I say it, hit it off. Contemplating on this is making me anxious. It's making me angry. So much so that I could use a distraction. Something like a drink.

I take a rather large swig of my Calvados to drown the notion. To remove that heinous thought from my consciousness. It's still there. Damn it, I want it to leave. But it persists. So I take another drink, downing most of the brandy until a sliver remains.

"Nicole, honey, control yourself," advises Richard. His words fall on deaf ears as I down the remaining sliver of Calvados.

My mind is clear. It took a while, but I've perished the thought. I'm feeling much better. Much, much better.

Too much.

This isn't good.

I can't see right.

I can't think straight.

Another serving of Calvados would be nice.

I fetch the bottle, but Richard grabs it before I do. He glowers at me disapprovingly, urging me to eat my meal. I feed myself forkful after forkful of butter-drenched lobster and salad, waiting for an opening. Eyeing the bottle intently. He lets go of the bottle, and I reach for it before he has the chance to react. He's fast, but not as fast as me.

He tries to pry the bottle out of my paw, putting up a better fight than I expected of him. In the end, I still get my drink, to which my husband palms his face in disappointment.

Nothing comes between me and my Calvados.

That should do it for now. I resume with my food, eating at a leisurely pace. My fork and knife slip from my grasp and continue to slip as I try to hold them. Yuki and Mr. Yoshida are staring at me.

I think.

I don't know.

I don't even know if that's them or not.

Dinner carries on not in the way that either of our hosts anticipated or wanted. We decline when Larry asks if we're interested in their dessert menu. The conversation after the meal is half-comprised of unintelligible nonsense coming out of my mouth. Nonsense that I have no control over. The drink has robbed me of that control, and I won't be regaining it tonight.

After the bill is paid, we take our leave. Mr. Yoshida is the first one out of the restaurant, with Yuki tailing him. Richard sees that I can barely stand on my feet, and walking is utterly out of the question, which is why he's forced to carry me back to the limo, as difficult as it may be for him. So his fat is just fat, no kind of muscle hidden underneath those calories.

He sidles out the door, where Yuki watches on and asks him, "Are you sure she'll be okay?"

"She will be," Richard responds, chuckling sheepishly as to not lose face in her presence. "This is nothing new for her. Or me." He mutters that last phrase under his breath.

Inside the limo, Richard sits me down on my side of the seat. Yuki provides me a bottle of water from the mini-bar, and I cool my head off by downing half of it. I rub my head to sober up faster, feeling ashamed about my less-than-graceful conduct just now.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," I apologize to the Yoshida's, looking away from them.

"I have seen this one plenty of times before," states Yuki, crossing her legs and touching her chin. "When someone has one drink too many, it's often to forget about something. Is there something _you_ want to forget, Nicole?"

"Huh? No, no." I really hate to lie to her, but I have to. This is none of her concern. By that token, it's not really any of Richard's business, either, but here he is, roped in.

Yuki doesn't press any further and does away with the topic.

Pierre drives me and Richard back home. We thank our hosts for the hospitality they've shown us and for allowing us to have such a rare experience. They are ready to leave, but not without Yuki putting her hands out of the window and placing them between my paw.

"I know you very well, Nicole. If you ever need my help, you have my number on your phone," she tells me. "Goodnight, Nicole-san. Goodnight, Richard-san."

The limo drives off from the curb, and Richard tends to me wondering if I still need him to carry me. I turn him down and walk next to him.

Though I appreciate Yuki's bid to help me, I don't need it. Just because I'm dealing with a burden—one that I believed I had done away with—doesn't give me the right to be a burden to other people, much less my closest of friends. This is my problem, and I'm going to deal with it, confront it, as I have before.


	10. A mark of strength

_**The Carbon Copy**_

 **by Christopher R. Martin  
**

Chapter 10 – A mark of strength

* * *

"So she helped you bake cookies on Saturday," asks my mother as she and I perform our kicking drills.

"She did," I reply to her, concentrating. Our movements are in sync with one another, lifting our legs as high as we can. "She showed me a good method of keeping my dough round. I used to have a really complicated way of doing it, but hers is a lot better than mine."

"I see," says Mom, switching her foot and giving me the sign to do the same. "What else did she teach you?"

"Well, she taught Darwin how to do cursive writing better. He's been struggling with it at school, and she really helped him out, too."

"Hmm…" There's that detachment in her voice again. It seems that Mom is most disinterested when talking about our grandmother. Ever since she arrived at our doorstep, she has not once treated her with any due respect. If she does something for her, it's always out of bitterness or indifference or plain anger. You can tell that simply from the hard time she's having maintaining eye contact whenever they're talking to each other.

Maybe pressing the issue isn't the wisest move I can make. Mom is a terrifying woman when she's angry. She becomes an entirely changed person. Even so, past that anger, past the short temper, I can discern her as still my mother. I can't do that when she's upset towards our grandmother, her own mother. I try to make out this strange new person, but come up with a great big blank. It's actually scarier than my mother going on a rampage, breaking people's bones and imposing her will as she sees fit.

Or if she's this mad, if she's this capable of showing a sheer lack of interest, then she's not completely the one to blame, if ever. It could be that Grandma Senicourt too has part of the blame to share. Whether a small portion, a large portion or a majority of it. It didn't occur to me to ask her that night, and I'm wishing that it did. Mom isn't the easiest nut to crack, and if someone can help me put two and two together, it would be her own parents. My grandparents.

A final kick from me and Mom, and that's the end of our drills. So begins the lesson proper, and we go through it as we have, from the customary start to the three-phase exercises. We've only recently gone through the different kicks in Yoshida-Ryu. There's a front kick, a back kick, a turning kick, a side kick and a roundhouse kick.

And this part of my training is hands down the most challenging so far. Each kick is so set apart in their technique, more so than punches, blocks and even stances. I almost have them nailed down, but the roundhouse kick continues to trip me up. It's hard to tell if I'm shifting my weight as Mom taught me I should and if my foot is pointed correctly.

Despite my failures, she encourages me to try again, helping me to my feet whenever I fall, yet still remembering that she is my teacher, my _sensei_ , and never losing her disciplined edge.

Eventually, I get the hang of the technique down, and I can perform the move to an acceptable level.

Following our short five-minute break is my stance training. We brush up on my stances, my _datchi_. Neutral, fighting, sumo and horse-back riding. Every one of these stances, these _datchi_ , I hold for two to three minutes each, or for as long as I conceivably can before my body gives out, with Mom striking these stances too as a benchmark for me to gauge my own performance according to.

Mom inculcates into my mind that though I've gotten my technique, my form, down pat, which she is confident that I have, there is always room for improvement. That being proficient at something is no excuse for me to be complacent. That leniency is what sets apart a good karateka from an excellent karateka.

At times, Mom is even baffled at how much and how fast I'm getting better. She doesn't quite tell me, but her wide-eyed and open-mouthed expression pretty much give it away.

With my _datchi_ done, that leaves the half-hour of kata practice, or the sequence of techniques performed in succession in a choreographed and intricate display. Mom instructs me to act out the two katas I have learned thus far. And I do without questioning her.

Straight punch.

Turn around on my heel, upper body block as I do so.

Straight punch again.

Turn on my heel to the right, guarding my upper body once again.

Three alternating straight punches, the third one aided by a kiai.

Repeat in the opposite direction.

That is the first kata in a nutshell. When I do it this time, Mom makes no comment aside from her appraisal.

The second kata works very much the same, except I do not look over my shoulder before turning my body. Since I can't see where I'm going, I have only my instincts and my precision to rely on. After being corrected by my mother during the first three steps, the rest is smooth sailing.

I hold the last pose and wait for Mom's word. She circles me observantly, and I anticipate that she'll correct a part of my body. She keeps walking. She doesn't correct me. The seconds unwind. The pain that I used to feel when maintaining my pose doesn't surface anymore after becoming accustomed with it.

" _Yame!_ " shouts my mother, and I revert to my starting stance. She kneels on the floor, as do I. We close our eyes and breathe in and out, the air cleansing me, cleansing us. Cleansing my soul, my spirit. Giving pause to my rapidly thumping heart. I count to thirty in my head and open my eyes.

Mom peers at me with her familiar scowl. The scowl softens into a smile, one that a parent wears when they are filled with pride. She takes to her feet and commands me to do likewise. Then she retrieves an object from her bag. She approaches me, revealing it to be a bright yellow belt.

My eyes, soul and spirit are aglow from seeing this belt, my heart once again running faster than I can keep up with.

"Well done, my _gakusei_ ," praises Mom, bowing as she holds the belt out. I bow back at her.

"Already?" I ask her, unbelieving. So taken aback. "But I've only started last week."

"A white belt is required to attend at least one lesson per week for at least four weeks. You have gone above and beyond what is expected of you, Gumball. So go on. Put it on. You have earned it."

I don't know what to say, if I can even say anything. I don't have to. I just obey my mother's instructions, do away with my white belt and adorn myself with this new one, tying the two ends in a knot. We bow to each other once more.

"Congratulations, Gumball, on moving from _jikkyū_ to _kyūkyū_." I present her a perplexed face to show I am still unfamiliar with the Japanese language. "I'll teach you about how ranking and belts are done in Yoshida-Ryu a little later. You have shown plenty of promise, my son. Perhaps I will get to see that promise realized."

"Thank you, Mom!" I catch her off-guard with a lunge and a hug. I don't know what's come over me. Neither of us do. I get ahold of myself, let go of her and bow to her as I always have.

Mom chuckles, placing her paws on her hips, her tail flicking behind her. She nears me and wraps me in her arms, stroking tufts of my fur on my head. I thought she was supposed to be my sensei, and that I was supposed to address her as such. This could be the only exception she makes, so I savor it while it lasts.

"No need to thank me, sweetie," she murmurs in my ear. "Watching you grow into a fine young man is all the thanks I need." She fondles me for a little while longer and then lets me go. One last time, we bow to one another. "That does it for today. Help me with dinner after you get changed, yeah, Gumball?"

"Alright, Mom."

I head out the door a revitalized boy. I feel like I can take on the world. Like a great big door has been opened for me. I inhale the crisp afternoon breeze and soak in the glorious brilliance of the sun. This is real. This yellow belt is as real as my fur and the skin underneath it.

But upon looking out that great big door, I see that the path I'm treading carries on, far from over. As long, narrow and difficult as I perceived it was going to be, as it was when I started treading it in the first place. The journey may be trying and even tempt me to quit while I'm ahead, but I know in my beating, vigorous chest that the destination is worth it…

* * *

I put the last of my textbooks and notebooks in my gym bag while stowing away the ones I don't need and close my locker door. I then start the walk to the music room for my next class, with Penny by my side. She had just heard my account of me attaining my yellow belt the other day, and she's about as happy for me as my mother is.

"So now that you're one rank higher, that means you can protect me. You can fight for me," Penny entertains, eyeing me with something of a shifty grin.

"You bet I will. I'll fight anything for your sake, Penny," I declare to her gallantly.

But to be completely honest, even if I wasn't learning karate, I'd still fight for her honor. For her sake. She knows it as well as I know it, and nothing will ever change that.

"Oh, my knight in shining armor. What oh what will I ever do without you?" She pushes her arm against her head as though she's ready to faint while she teases. I _wish_ I had a suit of armor, from a helmet to a chest plate to a pair of boots. And no, the crummy 'armor' I wore during my 'joust' with Tobias is anything _but_ armor.

I roll my eyes at her teasing.

"Joking aside, I'd like to see you show off what you know some time. Perhaps teach me a thing or two, even," says Penny.

"Stick by the gym after P. E., then, to get front row seats to the show. Be warned that it can get quite intense," I add smoothly, clicking my tongue and winking an eye at her.

Giggling to herself, Penny replies with, "I look forward to it."

We make it to class the same time as the bell rings. Music class runs its course as usual, my classmates latching on to their preferred or most familiar instrument and playing them, rather poorly at that. Next period is P. E., which also runs its course without deviating from the norm. Pretty much the only person having fun playing dodgeball is Jamie, who slaughters everyone she sees indiscriminately, friend and foe alike. In fact, she's very adamant in being a one—what the heck _is_ she, a cow, a bull, a ram?—army that she has to smack her teammates in the face to tell them that.

On my team, Penny is the newest and final casualty in Jamie's hands. Or is it hooves? Anyway, Penny goes down pretty hard after taking a ball in the face and the fall for me. My teammates practically have to rush into the field to get her safely to the bench.

And is that… That red blot trickling down her lower lip. Is that blood? Did Jamie just… She didn't. She did not just do that. She wouldn't have done that if I were around. If I have anything to say about it.

If I have anything to do about it.

An ember kindles in my stomach and glimmers in my eyes. The ember is stoked and springs into a raging wildfire that not even a firefighting team can hope to put out. In a shimmer, the fangs at the back of my mouth protrude as I bare a toothy glower at Jamie.

She snickers at me, delighting in having pulled a tender nerve in me. She throws the ball in her grip, but I hunch down as the predator I am to avoid the oncoming impact. There's plenty more where that came from, and she launches a volley of red rubber balls at my direction. I'm not losing. Not to her. Not after what I had to witness. It's high time that someone put her in her place.

As the bombardment careens my way, I parry every last ball. Sidling to the left, to the right, arching my back backwards, hunching down in a prowling posture, and somersaulting to dodge those that come in cluster. With a perfect landing on my feet, to boot.

One ball remains on her side. I'm primed and ready in my predatory position, eyes narrowed and attentive to her every move. She throws the ball. Catching it with one paw, I take to my feet and flex the fingers on my open other paw.

"Enough!" I snarl at her, teeth gritted and razor sharp. After inspiring nothing but fear from everyone she meets eyes with, Jamie has no idea how to respond to my reaction.

I assess the situation, or rather my side of the field. There are…how many balls? One, two, three, four, five, six, sev—does it matter how many? They're all near me now. The ball closest to me rolls even closer, and I swiftly snatch it.

In rapid succession, I fling ball after ball at her, every one of them flying at breakneck speed. Just when she avoids one by the skin of her teeth, another is just about ready to make acquaintances with her face. I'm throwing the balls too fast to land a decisive hit on her, but they're also too fast for her to react quickly enough to.

I've got her on the run. I have her running scared. And she has nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Getting scare is all she can do. Sooner or later, I'm going to land that clean hit.

And I do. Jamie goes down harder than Penny did. Harder than an elephant hit with a tranquilizer dart. She tumbles on the floor and to a stop. But this fire in me has burned too hot and beyond my control. I do not stop until every last ball has been launched. Until every last ball hits its mark.

One after another, they collide with Jamie and eventually pin her against the wall. The hits create a massive dent much like the one on Banana Joe's locker door.

Flesh for flesh, blood for blood. Jamie's blood, her pain, for Penny's. What an odd thought to ponder on. Jamie getting hurt. It's not something you see everyday, but it happens here.

Only after I've run out of balls do I stop. The wildfire dies quietly of its own volition, permitting me to see my surrounds as per normal. It's taken the wind out of me. I grope my chest and breathe labored breaths.

Over at the stands, my classmates and the coach watch on with gaping looks on their faces. Like they've never seen me this way ever. They did, once, when Darwin, Anais and I mistook Dad's supplements for cereal. I wasn't myself then, nor am I myself here.

But inspecting their horror closer, _am_ I myself just now? Penny looks none too pleased, if not outright terrified.

The question echoes in the back of my mind, now sounding with urgency. I can't really tell if my actions were due to an outside cause or if they were my own. For my sake and for theirs, I'd be afraid if they _were_ my own.

* * *

During the fifteen minutes we have left before our break, Mom introduces a new exercise to my lesson – applying what I've been taught in a practical scenario. She extends her arm pretending to be a random stranger from off the street. She grabs me by my right arm and elaborates that every move has been designed for more than just one situation. They don't have to be used so rigidly.

In this case, if I want to retaliate with, say, a straight punch, then it's not that difficult. I'd start by pulling them in while turning my arm quickly, forcing them to let go, and immediately go for the punch. And it's the same principle when someone grabs me by another part of me: grab them back by the wrist, pull the arm in and twist to break free, and counter however way I please.

For the purpose of this lesson, Mom just has me do a push. The friction on my wrist burns slightly. We repeat the process seven times before switching hands, and after seven more repetitions, she grabs my gi.

While we go through the exercise, Mom initiates some small talk with me.

"Tell me more about what happened today, _gakusei_ ," she begins, taking my gi into her paw.

"I didn't start it, Mom. Jamie did," I say as I breathe, pull and push.

"I know, you told me that. But how did it happen? Did she hit you, did she push you down, did she take your lunch money…"

"It's nothing like that." I can feel the strength in my arms building from pulling out of my mother's hold and retaliating. "Everything was fine until she went army tank on us. It was me and Penny left, and Penny took a hit for me. I…" I hesitate with the next repetition as the image of Penny's bruised face surfaces in my head. "I couldn't just do nothing after that. I wasn't going to let anyone get away with hurting her."

Mom folds her arms and ponders. She angles her head to the right and taps her foot on the floor. "And you got the upper hand and won the game, right?"

"Yeah."

"Is this girl…Jamie…is she alright?"

I shrug at my mother. "The nurse says she will be in a few days."

Taking a deep breath, Mom holds out her arm again and grabs mine by the wrist. Our eyes meet, hers burrowing their way into my soul. "One more time," she orders.

"Huh?"

"I need to see something. Try to break free and counter."

Her grip tightens even harder. In the face of her scrutiny, I hold my ground and do not falter. Breathing in and out, and relaxing every bone and every muscle, I twist my paw and clutch her wrist in an instantaneous motion. My fingers latch onto her person and lock in place, and I pull her with every ounce of strength I can muster and push her shoulder with equal force. The power behind my push is explosive, sending a shockwave hurdling in a wide radius away from us. It even sends Mom sliding across the floor and pins her on the wall.

Yes, that is what happens, word for word, beat by beat. I manage to beat my mother at her own game and move her, and I don't break that big of a sweat in doing so. My own mother, the epitome of strength and immovability. Even she is at a loss for words, processing my display with a perplexed countenance.

Gathering herself, she brushes off her gi and returns to her post, where she bows at me, and I bow back.

"And I thought I've seen everything," she comments. I'm a little weary. Discerning how my mother feels through her face alone comes naturally to me. But I have no clue as to what her look now is supposed to mean. It's absolutely neutral. Unreadable. Neither a smile nor a frown. She clears her throat. As a small ray of hope, her mouth gradually forms into a smile. "As I've said, you have plenty of promise, Gumball. Let's see if we can't tap into that potential and transform it into something truly amazing. That _is_ what you want, right?"

Fervently I nod to her. " _Hai!_ "

"That's the spirit. But first off, let's take a break."


	11. The Kumite

**_The Carbon Copy_**

 **by Christopher R. Martin  
**

Chapter 11 – The Kumite

* * *

The _Yoshida-Ryu Karate Kumite_ is held on the first Saturday of every second month. Karateka of all ages, genders and ranks gather here to demonstrate their prowess, train with one another and grow. I've been to too many to count, training with and challenging people of different backgrounds, winning some but losing some, too. Being able to go to one of these after so long sends memories flooding back, both wonderful and unpleasant. I don't even bother discarding the unpleasant ones because I know they can't be helped. Once I make my entry, wherever I go, wherever I look, those recollections will be triggered.

Each kumite is never held in the same place, but from what I've gathered, there is a certain number of venues that the people organizing the kumite cycle through. This time around, the venue is the Elmore Hall of Troopers.

The drive from the house to there takes me all of ten minutes. Gumball and I, dressed in our gis, exit the car, my son aiding his grandmother out the door. The three of us set foot into the building. A wide-open, low-ceiling space decorated with the insignia of the town's Boy and Girl Scout troops, its walls adorned with plaques, pictures, scrolls and ribbons capturing the glory of this upstanding group. For today, a banner hangs high on the wall, 吉田りゅ空手 inscribed on it in blank ink with a calligraphy-like style.

We have arrived right on time, and several karateka have made it before us and are milled around at the center. Mother gets a seat for herself, letting us know beforehand. Approaching us with welcoming cheer is young Masami, who has decided for today to use her legs rather than float around like she normally does. She extends her arm for a handshake.

"Gumball, so nice of you to make it," hails the cloud girl. "And you as well, Mrs. Watterson. It's an absolute honor to have you here."

"It was no problem, Masami," I say, shaking her hand. "You have your mother to thank for that. By the way, where is she?"

"She's currently getting dressed at the back room. She won't be long now."

"Whoa. I expected a lot of people to come today, but a turnout like this?" Gumball mentions, baffled by the amount of attendances.

"I know, right? You nervous?" Masami teases.

"Pssh. Why would I be nervous? I got this," claims my son confidently.

"That's the attitude we like to see from Yoshida-Ryu karateka. And you, Mrs. Watterson? Are _you_ excited?"

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't, but I suppose we'll just have to see what happens."

The reservations I'm entertaining in my mind seem to be greater than my excitement. I don't let either of the kids know this. My last kumite, I entered a strong-willed, focused black belt, a _godan_ , and left with a large, cavernous void in my spirit. Facing your best friend in heated competition, emerging the winner and watching your best friend leaving your life will do that to you. It's one of my greatest regrets in life, one that I will have to live with until my time on this world is over.

"Guess you have your own personal cheerleading squad for today, Gumball," teases Masami as she looks over Gumball's shoulder.

Gumball looks behind, and walking through the door is Penny, saying hello to every person that notices her. She meets eyes with and waves at us, my son's cheeks reddening lightly. She approaches us.

"Hey, guys," she bids. "So this is what an actual martial arts event is like. I wouldn't know, since this is my first one."

"Join the club," jokes Gumball.

"This is a lot of people for one event."

"I know."

I put my paw on Gumball's shoulder and give him a rub to keep him from being discouraged. "Are you sure you're not nervous, sweetie? Not even a tiny bit? It's okay if you are."

"Alright, fine, maybe I am," replies my son in annoyance, blushing harder. "No need to announce it, Mom."

Penny and Masami giggle from listening to us. "What about you, Masami? Will you be joining them?"

"Ah, no. Consider me an officiator of sorts. I'm just here to make sure that everything goes well." A beeping sound goes off at the end of Masami's sentence. She spares a glance at her watch. "Speaking of which, it's just about time to get started. Gumball, go line up with the others. Mrs. Watterson, if you would please come with me."

"Sure," I respond promptly.

Masami leads me across the hall and to the wall on the far end, alongside a group of other black belt karateka. "Alright, everyone. Cut the chit-chat and gather around! We're about to get started!" she hollers to everyone in here. She takes me to the backmost wall then clearly gives me a set of instructions to follow. "Just stay put right here, Mrs. Watterson. You'll each be introduced to everyone here. When you hear your name being mentioned, that's your cue. Got it?"

"Got it," I affirm, nodding my head at her.

As she runs off to fetch her mother from the door to my right, I take this time now to familiarize myself with my would-be colleagues. Not including me and Yuki, there are six other black belts here. Only one among them is a woman. They each gaze at me with scrutiny, their looks as dirty as the soles of their feet. They don't believe for one second that I am indeed one of them. That I am a _godan_ , that I earned this black belt just like they have. One of them, the woman, even has the gall to snicker to herself and passes it along to the others next to her.

I don't say a single word to them and focus only on what is in front of me. They can gawk and judge for all I care. None of them realize that soon enough, they'll be chewing on their own words. If this kumite is going to feature a competition of sorts, I pity anyone who has to come to blows with me.

A minute later, and Yuki emerges from the door, dressed in her clean white gi and her black belt. She sides next to me and greets me with a smile. The straps of her belt bear the same letters that mine does. A _godan_ , like I am. Yoshida-sensei, Yuki's father, told us when we wear under his tutelage that our belts are our spirit and skill made physical. Desecrating it would be no better than having no respect for ourselves.

Taking that to mind, to heart, I wonder what kind of spirit and skill these other black belts next to me have.

Masami presents herself to the group of karateka and gets the initial proceedings out of the way, welcoming them warmly and going on a blurb about Yoshida-Ryu. What it embodies, what being a practitioner of the art means. To put an end to conflict rather than to initiate it. To apply oneself wholly and undividedly to everything they do. To show the best of who we are, what we can be, for everyone around us to see.

These are the precise words that Yoshida-sensei told us in my own journey towards my black belt. They are no different now from when I last heard them. Generations apart Masami and her grandfather may be, but the worldly wisdom of these teachings, these principles, live on.

Finally, Masami gets on with the introduction of the black belts. The _sensei_ and the _shihan_ , those of a higher esteem than the _sensei_. She begins with her mother, who takes front and center and herself introduces the other black belts. Their names elude me, as I'm too busy watching my mother and then Gumball, who is standing at the front row of the pack. What I do know is that I am the last to be introduced, and for good reason…

"Now today, we have a surprise appearance from another black belt that you may not have heard of," says Yuki. "But I can assure you all that her ability and devotion to our art are undeniable. As someone who knows her personally and has trained alongside her, I can vouch for her. As early as _kyūkyū_ , she has shown tremendous promise in her basic techniques, her katas and her application. She set an example for her peers back in the day, including me. Yoshida-sensei once deemed her his favorite pupil, and as you can imagine, I was jealous of her for some time. I'm not afraid to admit it." This statement has me giggling to myself. "Regardless of what has happened in the past, I am glad to introduce her to you today. _Shihan_ Nicole Watterson, please step forward."

I walk to the center of the hall to an astonishingly loud and contagious ovation. Every student standing in front of me is clapping their hands, and the response is overwhelming. Their applause is empowering me, driving me even further to show them what I am capable of. To inspire them to make the most of this art, to reach the heights that they'd never in their wildest imaginations dream of reaching.

They cease their applauding, and we bow to each other. It would have been a good idea if I had prepared a speech before coming here. But I should be fine with just my way with words.

"Thank you very much for that wonderfully detailed blurb, Yuki," I say, stilling my heart, preventing it from racing too fast. "Everything that, um…it's _shihan_ , right?"

" _Hai_ ," answers Yuki.

"Right. Everything that _Shihan_ Yuki said about me considered, make no mistake, I am no different from every single person here in this hall. At the end of the day, I am a person just like each and every one of you. I have my ambitions, my hopes and dreams, my ups and downs, and my strengths and weakness. One teaching that Yoshida-sensei taught me and Yuki is that every person that walks this earth, every man and woman, has a strength in them that they are not even aware of. He taught us that regardless of our circumstances in life, we must never disregard that inner strength, because once we tap into it, it is a stronger force than anything we can comprehend. Karate, especially the _Yoshida-Ryu_ art, has a way of revealing what lies in our souls, our spirits, our hearts." I pass a brief glance at Yuki, and we exchange a nod. "As for what I discovered in me… Well, that would take too long for me to describe."

"Show them what you're made of, Nicole!" shouts my mother from way back on one of the benches. This vast, crowded space has become awkward in the snap of a finger because of her. Because of her lack of tact and timing. One of the black belts at my side starts snickering to himself, unaware that these lesser ranked karateka are watching him. I feel a flash of anger brewing in me, cheeks turning red, fists trembling and teeth gritting.

But I muster the willpower to rise above my anger and expel it in one breezy breath. "As I was trying to say, up until I was interrupted"—I shoot her a quick scowl, and she withdraws upon receiving the message—"Let us make the most of this kumite by doing just that. Through every punch, every kick, every block and every kiai, let us discover ourselves, more of ourselves. Let us see if we can reach into that hidden strength. Everyone, I wish you the best of luck."

One more bow between us these aspiring karateka, and the kumite begins proper. Yuki advises everyone to find a partner, even us black belts, and line up in two parallel rows. She partners up with the only other female black belt, while I'm stuck with the schmuck who had the good sense to laugh at my misfortune. The two of us are at one end of the row, next to a wall. Far enough from most of the group that they can't hear us as well. I pay him no mind, go through my stretching exercises and try to find my son in this mass of karatekas. A tiny tuft of blue pokes through these uniform rows of white. He's paired up with a boy his age who incidentally looks identical to my partner.

I believe they're called humans. Besides their common features—their furless, fleshy skin, their five-fingered hands and five-fingered toes and their comically lush and flowing hair—what are they supposed to be? Why do 'humans' appear so differently from the ones I often see on television?

"Nicole, was it?" the human begins.

" _Shihan_ Nicole," I correct him. "A pleasure to meet you, um…"

"Scott. _Sensei_ Scott."

" _Sensei_ Scott it is, then. Pleasure to make your acquaintance." As per the etiquette of a Yoshida-Ryu karateka, I bow to him out of respect. He, on the other hand, stays standing, blatantly refusing to display that etiquette.

"Hmph. I'm not going to bow to someone who shows up out of the blue and claims to be on the same playing field as _Shihan_ Yuki," he claims firmly, folding his arms and swaying his head to his side. "Unless I see it with my own two eyes, the way I see it now, I'm the one who's closest to _Shihan_ Yuki. So back of the line, honey. You're cutting in."

What a ray of sunshine this man is making himself out to be. Stubborn, disrespectful, and just plain full of himself. He's the complete package. I'd complain about winding up with this man, but I think better of it and cooperate with gritted teeth.

Very well. If that's the way it's going to be, then he can have his way. Appalled, I say nothing more to him and instead lean over to one of the other black belts.

"Geez, what's _his_ problem?" I ask the man to my right, another human, but somewhat more approachable than Scott. A _sandan_ , or third dan, a third-degree black belt.

"He's always like this," he replies and rolls his eyes, having seemingly dealt with this behavior himself. "Nothing worth batting an eye at. Earns the praise of the head _shihan_ , and he lets it get to his head. If I were allowed to, I'd sock it to him so he can land back to reality."

"Yuki favors him?" I ask whilst stretching my left leg and then my right.

"Eh, 'favor' is a bit overkill, but she definitely has taken a liking to him."

"How come?"

"She sees something in him. I can't put my finger as to what that something is, though. I'll admit that Scott's a talented guy. Why else would he be 2nd dan? But man, he could really use a filter."

Yuki sees 'something' in him, he says. I'm hard-pressed to believe that. If that something is stubbornness or arrogance, then there honestly isn't that much of a resemblance to speak of. The Yuki I know may have been stubborn or arrogant—and for all I know, she could still be—but she has her limitations. She never oversteps her bounds, and the one instance where she did, she acknowledged where she went wrong.

Unless this Scott guy can step off of his pedestal, his future as a black belt, as a karateka, isn't looking very bright.

"Nice to meet you, by the way. Nicole, right?" the other human says, stretching his arm out to me.

"That's right. Nice to meet you too, uh…"

"Archibald. But please, Archie will do."

"Then, pleasure to make your acquaintance, Archie." I shake Archie's hand and we bow. His sparring partner bows at me, too.

Yuki then announces that we mill around at the center, which we do without objection. There, we begin proper by going back to basics. We go through every maneuver—every punch, block, kick and _datchi_ —in the typical fashion: three sets of seven to ten reps, each set increasing in pace. Slow, then medium-paced, then fast.

Straight punch, head-level punch, extended backfist, short gut punch, sideward backfist.

Head-level block, inward forearm block, stomach-level block, inward waist-level block.

Front kick, side kick, spin kick, back kick, knee-level kick, roundhouse kick.

Long fighting stance, short fighting stance, horse-riding stance, sumo stance. Each stance, held for as short as one minute or as long as three.

The way in which we perform these techniques, our uniformity, our equal pace, our harmonious kiais, it is out of this world. To the untrained eye, one would be under the assumption that this is a choreographed routine, intricately mapped out from beginning to end. That we have this supposed routine memorized from endless studies.

Through these punches, blocks, kicks and stances, the hearts of every karateka here in this great hall beat in sync with one another in a chorus of passion and conviction. I don't need to look at each and every one of them to know that they are putting their everything into their karate. It is in their heartbeat, their breath, their motion. Even Gumball, standing far away from where I am, pours his heart, mind, body and soul into being an exemplary martial artist. An exceptional person.

Not a single intent in this hall is ever discordant. Everyone is in perfect harmony, in perfect sync.

Almost everyone.

As my partner, Scott is doing his damndest to outdo me, to outperform me, when there is no competition here whatsoever. Any semblance of a competition is purely fictitious. It's in his head and nowhere else. I'm pretty sure he's even tried to punch or kick me every now and then. At least two or three of his punches and kicks narrowly miss me in the hopes that I will somehow flinch and lose my balance. He is denied the satisfaction, and I soldier on and make it through the drills.

Scott is a mischievous punk poking and prodding a predator in the middle of its slumber. If he continues this, that predator will awaken and decimate him before he can get a word in edgewise. The one warning I give him to stop his nonsense is a calm yet sharp glower, which he answers with a sneer that expects for me to lose my cool.

At the end of the last _datchi_ drill—the sumo stance—Yuki calls for us to bow and stand neutrally. As expected, Scott does not affect a bow nor does he stand neutrally.

Next is kata practice. This part of the kumite is typically an evaluation of everyone's knowledge of their katas. Yellow belts to green belts are judged on the two basic katas, red to brown on the more intermediate ones, and all degrees of black belts on the advanced ones.

The kumite must have changed from when I still took up Yoshida-Ryu. Rather than multiple karatekas of a single grade standing before everyone and performing their katas, they are asked to perform individually and judged as so. The order Yuki goes with is descending in rank. From brown all the way down to yellow.

Everyone steps up to the plate and gives us their best kata yet. The swelling anticipation and subsequent joy or disappointment that is typical in watching a child's recital is also experienced in this atmosphere, if not more so because of how physically, mentally and spiritually strenuous this can be. Not only for the karateka demonstrating their prowess, but also their loved ones quietly cheering them on with bated breath.

Gumball's turn comes up soon, and Penny instantly cheers him on. He passes me and her a quick glance and breathes to bring himself the calm he needs. He begins, choosing to go with the first kata. I dictate every last move in my mind and watch him enact them. His straight punches, his stomach-level block, the pivoting on his heel, all spot-on, his fur moistened from his sweat. When he shouts, we all feel it vibrating our souls. His eyes do not sway from his path. He does not stop to give me a look and completes the rest of the kata.

He ends the kata by returning to a neutral stance. He bows to his peers, who applaud him, then to us _shihan_ and _sensei_ , and then to me. He tries to refrain from cracking even the smallest hint of a smile, only to fail after I smile at him in delight. At least he doesn't charge at me for a hug.

With the colored belts all having stepped up to exhibit their skill, it is our turn now to do exactly that. As the head _shihan_ and successor to the Yoshida name, Yuki takes to the mat first. Her kata is performed with utmost finesse, with utmost purity. Her balance, her strength, her fluidity and her coordination in her strikes, her blocks and her kiais have seen much development from the training that she had put herself through.

She is a masterfully crafted sword, its steel tempered in sweltering flame and refined on an anvil and with the pounding of the mallet. Impregnable and lethal, yet stunning. Watching her is almost like watching her own father demonstrating his prowess. His _peerless_ prowess. Her fists and her heart burn as vigorously as his did for all his life.

She holds the last move, the air passing in and out of her. Her chest expanding and retracting. The whole group then promptly claps for her, which she accepts with a bow.

The rest of us black belts follow, and for my first time observing these new faces, I am impressed with what they're showing me. I loathe to admit it, but Scott has nailed his chosen kata down to perfection.

I am the last to take my turn, and when the time comes for me to step forward on the mat, my mother can't help her excitement any longer and hollers out for me. She screams out things along the lines of 'Knock 'em dead, Nicole', or 'Show them what you're made of, dear'. This is the first time in a long time that I've heard her enthusiastically encourage me in whatever event I'm taking part in. That she is acting more like the mother she is, the mother she should have been, rather than a competition-obsessed, overbearing stick in the mud. And her poor sense of timing cannot be any more obvious.

So many years since she's had my back. So many years too late. I can't get them back. Not anymore. I could never get them back no matter what I tried.

Discarding the musing and the image of my mother's 'support', I start my kata. Like learning how to ride a bicycle, I progress through the kata with a bout of hesitation. As the haze peters out from my memory, so too does that hesitation. While I do take my time remembering how the kata goes, remembering my former glory, never do I stumble in my actions.

With my memory becoming lucid, a surge of strength courses through my veins and into my limbs. My paws for when I am about to punch, and my feet for when I am getting ready to kick. That flow of strength redirects itself to fortify my lungs when I have to shout. Judging from the reactions that I draw from everyone, colored and black belts alike, it's as though the world has come to a standstill. As though it can see through these four walls, this ceiling, and freeze in fear at the sight of me exhibiting my karate.

Long fighting stance, short fighting stance, straight punch, head-level punch, knee kick, roundhouse kick, it's a nigh-neverending rotation of attacks. The audience may not actually be getting hit, but they feel the impact so well that they might have been struck.

Through a voice in my head, I chant to myself.

I am power.

I am strength.

I am dedication.

I am commitment.

I am loyalty.

I am solidarity.

I am a blue-collar, honest, well-earning woman. A loyal friend. A wife. A mother.

I am Nicole Watterson.

My strength is born from who I am. The person that I have molded myself into, the person that I will continue to be. And so, it is pure. It is right. It is proper. The good, the bad and all else in between, I take them, accept them and use them to stoke this raging flame in me.

One final punch, and one final kiai, and the crowd lets loose another thunderous ovation. There is not a single person here who isn't clapping. Again, except for Scott. He is dumbfounded. Speechless. Breathless. I have just proven everything he thought about me wrong. Even now, he is still processing what is the proper response to show.

Among the crowd of karatekas, Gumball beams at me widely, eyes asparkle with stars. The impulse to break out into a blush in front of these young and old hopefuls stabs and jabs in me, at odds with the years of training I have endured. The training where I learned to put a bridle over my feelings.

Over at the benches, I find my mother excitedly telling the guy next to her about me, shaking him rigorously like a maraca. "That's my daughter over there." "That's my little girl in the black belt." She'd exclaim again and again, driving the other parents around her crazy.

Thank goodness that everyone else is clapping too loudly for them to hear her.

Yuki walks up to me, and we bow. "An excellent performance, Nicole-san," she commends. "Just as I would expect from you."

"Thank you, Yuki."

I sit back down on my original spot. We now advance to the part of the kumite that I'm certain everyone is looking forward to the most: the sparring. For this portion of the kumite, we remain with our designated partners. Each pair is called forward by Yuki, who then gives them protective equipment to wear. Gloves, aprons, kneepads and shinguards.

The two karatekas then take to the mat to test their skill, their knowledge, against the other. Masami oversees the affair as a mediator. A referee, of sorts. Since neither karateka know each other that well, they are forced to play to their strengths, which also makes sparring a test of application. Composure is the key, the deciding factor in who wins and who loses. No, allow me to rephrase that. The deciding factor in who is the better fighter, whose grasp on the concept of Yoshida-Ryu is firmer.

Several bouts later, and Gumball is next under the spotlight along with his partner, the human boy resembling Scott to a tee, also a yellow belt. If I had known any better, I'd say that he's a perfect duplicate. Their bout is an entertaining spectacle, both parties landing their strikes definitively, parrying and blocking sometimes with grace and finesse, sometimes with a little less, and affecting a strong presence of mind.

For the most part, the odds are even. Neither of them really shift the favor heavily towards them. Not because they're too afraid of getting hit, but because their equal skill prevents the favor from shifting. It makes it hard for anyone to choose who to root for. By my side, Scott is mumbling to himself, cheering his boy on angrily.

At one time, the human does gain the upper hand, unloading attack after attack successively, never allowing Gumball to catch his breath. My son staggers from taking a kick to his side, the apron at least cushioning the blow somewhat. Spirited competitors they may be, I still hold out for him. If he is to come back from this setback, then he needs to respond with a similar aggression. Find that opening or create one and exploit it, while recognizing his weaknesses and concealing them.

Gumball creates that opening he needs, catching the other boy's fist in his paw. He pulls in and throws a punch aimed at the apron, twisting his wrists as he does so before he makes contact. Sending the boy sliding across the mat, disorienting him.

Another opening presents itself to Gumball, and he seizes it by advancing towards the human boy, angling himself, and throwing the hardest front kick he's ever thrown. The explosive impact brings the boy flat on his back.

" _Yame!_ " shouts Yuki.

Gumball promptly tends to the human and picks him up back to his feet. The human dusts himself off, as taken aback as we all are. There is no animosity between them, and they pay each other due respect.

The remaining pairs put on a fine show in their own right, but nothing as nip and tuck as the one that my son and his partner had put on. Yuki and her partner, though, give us a good show. Her partner manages to hold her own, but it doesn't require much effort to guess who the clear winner is going to be. As uneven a matchup as a snake and a mongoose.

I was hoping that I could get to spar with Yuki. To relive our glory days and share them with everyone here today. No better way to communicate than by doing what we equally love. Through our fists and our feet.

Whether it's a coincidence or it was one hundred percent intentional, Scott and I are the last ones up on the mat. One more time I bow to him. One more time, he refuses to respond the same way. His eyes taper and he raises his dukes in a stance, preferring to cut to the chase.

To Masami's bewilderment, as well as mine, Scott elects not to use any protective equipment, tossing them to the side when she offers them to him. Masami hands me the gear, which I decline politely.

Without any objection, I let him have his way and prepare myself. A ten-second silence sweeps across the hall, our beating hearts audible. I meet his grin with a countenance of steel.

" _Hajime!_ " exclaims Masami.

Scott goes for a preemptive strike, rushing fast enough that you miss him if you blink an eye, preceding a flurry of punches and kicks aimed at the most vulnerable parts of the body. He aims for my head, my knee, my abdomen and my jaw. Not one of his strikes connect. He comes nowhere near landing a hit, as I deflect his strikes without much difficulty, reversing the momentum back unto him.

Despite his strategy not panning out, he opts for it again, yielding the same result. He sticks to this one strategy and nothing more, the ferocity fueling his offense wilder with each successive attempt. I don't even have to do much. This battle is winning itself for me.

Throughout this kumite, I'm asking myself what Yuki saw in him that led to her taking a liking to him. Perhaps it's his determination. His drive. His unyielding resolve. He's a pain in the ass, but he's such a pain in the backside that doesn't know when to quit. He doesn't know the meaning of defeat. Of humility.

Perhaps that's the problem, and I have just the solution to fix this.

Breath after ragged breath, Scott does not allow for his footing to slip. He lunges at me for the umpteenth time, his right leg behind him straightened. I catch this with both my eyes and assume the correct position.

As I anticipate, his leg flies to my head in a roundhouse kick. My eyes narrow as his widen. Checkmate. The leg is caught in my arm, locked in place without the possibility of breaking free. He cannot punch me, he cannot kick me. A second-degree black belt, and he is making such a rookie mistake.

Now that I'm in this favorable position, I am free to do whatever I please with him. Chop his neck, sweep him off of his feet, strike his head or, if I really want to, debilitate his knee with a single, hard and sharp kick.

In the crowd, I see the human boy, Scott's child, and Gumball together, awaiting my action with the same kind of anticipation. They are both anxious, the human especially. I glimpse at my mother, and in her eyes, I find myself at twelve years old.

A karate tournament held at the Elmore Junior High gym that I was a part of. Mom and Dad were amongst many attendees on the stands. My preliminary match saw an outcome identical to this. My opponent's leg, locked in my arms. Vulnerable. Helpless. His pleading stare plucked a chord in me. Mom called for me to end it, while Dad glued his eyes to his watch. He continued to plead, the choice becoming harder and harder until I no longer wanted to hurt him. Yet I still wanted to win… _She_ wanted me to win. I _had_ to win.

The sound of his bone crunching and his scream of agony resounded in the gym. The audience felt it along with the poor boy's pain. The pain in his shattered knee.

Scott isn't looking at me begging for me to spare him. He's begging for me to get it over with. It is befitting of a loser…

…which he is not.

Rather than shattering his knee and his son's heart, and causing him more than just disgrace, I sweep his foot with my leg and pin him to the floor. I snatch his arm and pacify him.

There will be no broken bones and broken lives today.

I let go of the hold to yet another round of applause from the colored belts. To my delight, Scott accepts my paw when I try to lift him up. His damaged pride is plainly obvious in his face, in how he avoids eye contact with me.

"It was an honor, _sensei_ Scott," I hold my paw out, still.

A five-second pause, and he and I shake hands. His pride is still wounded, but his features do soften as he concedes with grace.

"Likewise… _shihan_ Nicole," he bows, and so do I.

"Woo-hoo! You go, Nicole! You're number one in my book!" cries my mother, drawing attention to herself. I can't help but palm my face. I guess _that_ is never changing.

"She with you?" Scott whispers, arms folded.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Be patient with her."

Her loud cheering knows no end. But my patience does. It probably won't be long until it is exhausted altogether.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_

 _I'm going to be away for two weeks starting on October 18. My family and I will be on a vacation to Japan, and thus there won't be much work done on my part, both here and on YouTube. Thank you for your understanding, and as usual, don't forget to leave your reviews if you have one.  
_

 _Happy reading and writing._

 _- **The One and Only C. R. Martin**_


	12. Past and Present become one

_**The Carbon Copy**_

 **by Christopher R. Martin**

Chapter 12 – Past and present become one

* * *

The drive back home is uneventful. No one in the car speaks a single word. Grandma Senicourt attempts to start a conversation, at least, but Mom hastily shoots her down by glaring at her through the rearview mirror, hardening her grip on the steering wheel and clenching her teeth behind her mouth. I'm stuck here on the passenger seat, still utterly clueless. Still trying to figure out the reason for their one-sided bad blood.

At the house, she storms out the car and down the front lawn, her body tense as a board. Grandma Senicourt catches up to her, and I race after them to try and stop an impending commotion from arising. Mom kicks the front door out of her way, her footsteps so loud and hard that they crack the floor.

"Nicole, sweetie," Grandma Senicourt beseeches. She coughs several times as she reaches out to her daughter. She has been coughing since the kumite, and her coughs have persisted for half of the ride home. "Please slow down. I can only keep up for so long."

"That's not my problem now, is it?" Mom faces Grandma cruelly.

For once, Grandma isn't going to have any of that and stands firm. "What _is_ your problem, then? I have been making an effort since I got here, Nicole. I am doing everything in my power, like I promised you."

"Well, you're not trying hard enough," Mom folds her arms and averts her eyes from my grandmother.

"What will it take for me to win you over? Do you want me to jump a burning hoop? Will _that_ make you happy?" Grandma raises her voice, and the similarities between mother and daughter are very uncanny, to say the least. She could be even scarier than Mom on a bad day.

"You just don't get it, do you?" Mom palms her face to try and keep her temper in check, which is like trying to pat an enraged grizzly bear to pacify it. "Since you don't get it, I don't understand why you even showed up. You told me that you knew where you went wrong, and you want to make it right."

"And I do!"

"So what was your idea of making things right? By making an idiot out of yourself? By making _me_ look like an idiot in front of all those people? Is that it?"

This is a double-sided argument. It's an unhinged, heated verbal exchange while also being a tug-of-war to see who between the two can scream the loudest without ripping their lungs off.

"I was being supportive, like I should have been from the start."

"Oh, you were being supportive," retorts Mom sarcastically. "Ah, okay. Thank you so much for your support, then. I don't know what I would do if you didn't have my back." What is wrong with my mother?

"Nicole…"

Neither of them seem to know that I am within earshot of them.

"Save it." Mom shows her paw to Grandma and stops her from taking another step. "You've done enough. I'm done talking to you for the day. Don't come near me. That's an order. And for that matter, stay away from my kids. Stay away from my son. He doesn't need to be fed your nonsense." She takes her leave and stomps her way up the stairs.

Behind me, Dad could not have picked a worse time to come back from work. He watches Mom along with me, carrying three boxes of Fervidus pizza, and sighs.

"What happened, now?" he asks stonily, suspecting that a fight had recently transpired.

Sighing to herself, Grandma Senicourt shakes her head and rubs her forehead. "Something terrible. This is a job for you, Richard, not me."

"Right," nods Dad. He strides up the stairs, suspecting that Mom may need him for someone to confide in. For a shoulder to cry on.

With the two of us left downstairs, Grandma Senicourt sits on the couch and slants her head down. She interlocks her fingers and sets her chin down on them. I sit by her side and lean forward to get a good look at her. I see and hear her sniffling, but not one teardrop slips out of her eyelids. Her breath grazes my cheek.

She doesn't need to open her eyes to sense my presence.

"You should be up there too, Gumball. Your mom needs you," she breathes, affording to affect a grin.

"Dad can handle her," I tell her confidently. If they haven't gone out somewhere today, Darwin and Anais may also be up there with the two of them. "On the other hand, I'm right here. And you have some talking to do."

"What do you want to hear?" she chuckles, opening her eyes.

"Let's try taking it from the top." I bring my legs up on the couch, tuck them in and listen attentively to what Grandma Senicourt has to say.

Recounting her story takes a lot of her willpower. She doesn't start until after twenty seconds have fleeted by. I don't know why, until I hear her story.

The three of them used to lead a happy, uncomplicated life—her, Mom and Grandpa. But Mom grew up over the years, as did Grandma Senicourt's expectations of her. She had carefully, intricately, planned out her life for her, getting her involved in a lot of activities besides karate to equip her with the skill and fortitude she would need to face the cruel, outside world. So that she may attain the greatness her mother wanted, demanded, of her. It meant constant straight A's in her education, being the best at every activity she took part in, and straight-up being a winner. No questions asked. Anything less was a disgrace.

But these achievements obviously came with a price. They were at an extreme expense. An expense that, had Grandma Senicourt learned of sooner, she would have prevented. Among these heavy costs was an alienation from her peers. Mom's fracture friendship with Yuki can be traced back to my grandmother's drive for perfection. That very same drive that my mother would in effect take for herself.

It took the intervention of a certain fat pink rabbit for her to open her eyes. To tell her the right way to live her life. Grandma Senicourt was so furious at Mom for entertaining the idea that not being number one was perfectly okay that she grounded her for one week. She was forbidden from seeing Dad and was expressly told to avoid him whenever she was at school.

The straw that broke the camel's back came after one final argument between them. A month after Mom turned eighteen. Out came the braces, the acne and her…valuables. And with them her sense of independence, which was what their argument was about. Everything that Mom had ever wanted to say to Grandma and Grandpa, she unloaded on them without a tinge of mercy. Their overbearingness, their condescension, their sheer control, she took them out into the forefront for the whole world to see and tore her parents apart for them. She may have gotten what she wanted in pouring her heart out in the harshest, most unabashed way she can, but this is not a happy moment for their family. Not for Mom, and especially not for Grandma.

Looking back now, Grandma Senicourt was the one who was really in the wrong. She can't recall if Mom ever smiled when she was with them at home. She probably did, but the memory is buried deep, unrecognizably lost in the shuffle of pain. The words that my mother spilled out to them were one hundred percent correct. Grandma Senicourt's intentions were that of love for her daughter, but somewhere down that road, her intentions overrode her affection.

In what she convinced herself to believe was an act of love, Grandma Senicourt did not attend the wedding of her daughter and her future son-in-law. Then again, who's to say that Mom thought the same thing back then? She might not have. In spite of the rift between them, maybe she was yearning for a mother-daughter reunion, if even a temporary one. Maybe she yearned for her mother and father to sit there, on that pair of reserved chairs. Maybe she pined for her parents to see her become a wife, and eventually a mother, herself. Maybe there was a trace of happiness that could be plucked out in the midst of this hurt. Whether there was or wasn't, it's too late to know. It's too late…

…only if you accept that it's too late. Because until you do, it's never too late. That was Grandma Senicourt's mindset when she called Mom repeatedly these past few days, and when she emerged at our doorstep. Decades, that rift has stayed there. And like any other, that rift can be closed.

"Grandma, I…" The words get caught in my throat. The need to cry throbs in my brain, but I repress it forcefully.

"Don't be sorry for me, Gumball. Only I should be apologizing," broods Grandma, burying her face in her palms. "What was I thinking, coming here? Why did I ever think that I can easily close that gap? Why did I ever think my own daughter will ever forgive me? I'm sorry for wasting your time, Gumball. I'm sorry for wasting everyone's time. If things don't get better within the next few days, I'll go ahead and pack my bags and leave."

I fold my arms in silent reflection.

People will experience that one moment, that one event that will leave them forever a changed person. For better or worse, their lives will never be the same from then on. I have seen one such moment, one such event, too many that it's a miracle that I am still lucid in the face of such insanity. The discovery of my girlfriend's true appearance, the bond that I formed with my dear pet-goldfish-turned-brother, and I guess something about the end of my so-called 'amazing world', as some cyclops kid—I think maybe 'Rob' was his name? Maybe?—explained it to me. I'm not sure, that one's kind of foggy.

But I digress. Those are moments that I will never forget, that have had a profound resonance in me, one way or another. And I can add our talk just now to that list.

Mom… Mother… I have been dying to know why she was reluctant in training me. Why she was hesitant in passing on her skill, her strength… I never knew. Now I do. And now that I know, the clarity that this truth brings is not at all what I anticipated. Not at all what I was ready for.

I want to be angry at my mother for her hesitation, to begin with, and for her doubt in me. For fearing that I will turn out to be worse than I am for making the choices that I did. For protecting me. Yet I want to sympathize with her for that exact same reason. I want to thank her for merely doing what she was meant to do. For giving me what her mother could not give her, _did_ not give her.

That part of me also wants to apologize to her. Apologize for being so headstrong and not looking through her eyes. Through the eyes of someone who was more or less in the same position that I'm in now. I feel obliged to beg for her forgiveness for disrespecting her wishes. For disregarding her authority. For the headaches that I might have been causing her simply by wearing that gi. For the possibility that I made her believe she was not fit to be a mother.

There must be a way that I can do them both. Thank her and say sorry to her. There has to be.

And indeed, there is. Through the most perfect way I know how. It will be for the best. Her efforts will not be in vain. I can show her, I _will_ show her, that she raised me well. That I am grateful for her. That I was in the wrong for my disregard.

But can I really? Do I have it in me? Yes. Yes, I can. Yes, I do. I am my mother's son. I am a Watterson.

Grandma Senicourt stands from the sofa and proceeds to the kitchen for a glass of water. She's inches from the first tile, when I tackle her for a tight hug. I remain this way for a second or ten, never letting her go.

"Gumball, wha—"

"That was a brave thing you did, Grandma," I mutter to her, leaning my head against her. "Don't say that it was a waste of time. Mom may not be thrilled that you're here, but the rest of us are. I am. I'm happy that we got to meet."

Holding absolutely still, Grandma looks to the ceiling and digests my words just now. I hear a chuckle from her mouth, and she turns around and rubs my head.

She crouches down, caresses my cheeks and leans her head on mine. "So am I, dear boy," she whispers, her handling of my face deft and gentle. She reciprocates my embrace by wrapping me in her arms. Her cheeks are on top of my head. They're warm to the touch. That, and I can hear her sniffling. It was inevitable. Sooner or later, she just had to listen to that urge. That urge we have to heed.

I want to cry, too, but I've suppressed that urge in me hard enough that it can no longer surface.

"Hey, Gumball?" asks Grandma Senicourt.

"Yes?"

"Don't be too hard on your mother. You know she loves you. I can tell you right now that she has done a better job with you than I have with her. If she becomes angry at me again, you don't have to speak on my behalf. Understand?"

"I do."

* * *

A good friend is supposed to be there for you to catch you as you fall. To hear you with open ears as you pour your heart and soul out. To accept you wholly, the good, the bad and all else. To fight your battles for you or alongside you. But a good friend also respects your boundaries and never oversteps them. They know that opening yourself is not always the best solution. They will respect your decision to fight your battles by yourself, without anyone's aid.

During recess, I lie down on the bench and watch the clouds travel in the sky while my classmates play and mingle to their hearts' content. If I have to draw an image that perfectly encapsulates my mind, it would look identical to these clouds. The thoughts in there errantly move about from corner to corner, with no rhyme or reason. I break from the mundane habit and give my right paw some brief scrutiny, inspecting the palm and heel, flexing my fingers. Opening and closing them back and forth.

The talk between me and Grandma Senicourt this weekend has been all there is in my mind lately, trumping every other useless thought that I conjure. I have to put on a smile whenever I look Mom in the eye so that she doesn't suspect a thing. That would be like trying to hide a surprise in plain sight. Yet I do it anyway. It's one of a few steps I take to let her know that everything is alright.

And to tell you the truth, everything is alright…barely. Me, Mom and Grandma Senicourt, we are one long and tall sheet of glass. On the surface, it's crystal clear. Not one thing is hidden from us. There is harmony between the three of us, perfect and serene. But at any time, without warning, it can fall to the ground. It can shatter. It will be too irreparable to try and fix. It's a balancing act. Each of us share the burden evenly, yet I make myself believe that it's squarely on me and me alone.

It could very well be. Mom and Grandma Senicourt have both had their time. Now it's my turn. What I do, what I say, what I think, how I conduct myself to people, how I treat people, they determine make or break. I can't afford to let anyone see me as anything less than strong. I've always seen the world around me through a certain lens, where things are usually fickle. And more often than not, they are fickle.

This, however, is not fickle by any means. It's as vital as life and death, maybe even more.

Over to my left, the sounds of a basketball bouncing snap me from my pensive stupor. Hearing my name being uttered triggers the rest of my senses back into wakefulness.

"Gumball, look out!" one of my classmates shouts. Clayton. The bouncing of the basketball loudens until a shadow is cast over me, leaping about on and off my face.

I jump from the bench I was lying on and somersault out of the ball's direction. I catch it in my paws and fling it to one of the hoops. I somehow manage to land a basket, but I throw the ball so hard that the backboard comes flying off and landing on the Robinsons' car as it drives by the school. Mr. Robinson gets out, flails his arms and legs wildly like he always does when he gets mad, and curses no one in particular for his terrible luck.

My classmates all stare at me, wondering the same thing: what has come over me? But that's not for them to know, is it?

Later in the day, when I'm going to my next period, music, Penny catches up to me on the way to the classroom. She lends a helping hand, or tries to as she's done since the start of the week. She begins by looking into my eyes, but I lower my head and concentrate solely on where I'm going.

"Gumball," my shapeshifter girlfriend puts a hand on me, her worry for me plain as day. "Gumball, this can't go on. I want to help you, but you need to let me help you and you need to help yourself, too."

I tilt my head up, but I still do not face her. "I don't think all the help in the world is going to be enough," I exhale as we make our way along the stairs.

"You don't know that. Why don't you start by telling someone? Tell me." She moves in front of me, stopping the two of us in the midst of the constantly moving crowd. "Tell me what's bothering you."

I lead her to the wall, away from the flow of students and their always-open ears. I can only avoid her eyes for so long. Gulping, I face her, breathe and set my bag down on the floor. I lean on the wall, slide down it and hold my knees protectively.

"Have you ever had those days where you think that whatever you say or do could change the world forever?" I conceal my face in my arms.

Though my eyes are closed, I sense Penny's arm around my shoulders. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Why didn't I just stick to cooking for extracurricular stuff? I could have just been volunteering at the cafeteria or bake a bunch of donuts for the police or something. But no, I chose karate. I just had to choose karate."

"But I thought you love it."

"I do."

"So what's the problem?"

How can I put it into words without giving away too much? This is my problem, not hers. It shouldn't be hers. She's not a Watterson.

No. I trust her. We have faith in each other. We know better than to keep a secret from the other. Boundaries have their uses, but we still need to wise up to ourselves, admit when we need help and seek out that help ourselves. We still have to be above our pride.

Slowly and gently is the key.

"I have so much in my plate right now," I confess to her, removing my face from my arms. "I love being a karateka, Penny. You don't know how much I love it—"

"I might have a hunch." Penny winks at me and smiles.

"But what good is enjoying something when you only make some people around you feel awful?"

Penny takes my paw and gets me to face her. "It's your happiness, Gumball, not theirs. Only you get to make that decision, no one else. If those people can't be happy for you, then too bad for them. It's their loss."

The strap of my bag in my paw, I stand up and rub the corner of my eye. The crowd has thinned out from a continuous wave of students to merely three or so. "It's not that simple, Penny. These people aren't just random strangers off the street."

"Then who are they," Penny follows suit and stands. She affirms her position, her resolve, by folding her arms.

Now comes the tricky part. Now comes one such moment where what I choose to say is so important. Choose right, and there may yet just be hope. Choose wrong, and that's it.

"You'll be shocked to know who it is." Who _they_ are is the correct phrase to use. "It's—"

The words slide back down my throat. Not because I hesitate, but because a new person makes their entry and inserts themselves into the equation.

"Watterson!" I don't have to look over my shoulder to know who it is. This person's voice may be mangled badly, but I can still identify who it belongs to.

Her footsteps are like tremors, each of them strong enough to receive their own measurements on the Richter scale. Penny quakes slightly where she stands. She may be able to transform into marvelous and powerful creatures, but the fear that this person instills remains strong.

I, however, am not in the mood. Not today…

"Hey! I'm talking to you! Didn't you hear me?" shouts Jamie, so close to me that my ears are ringing.

"Yeah, I heard you. So?" I refuse to look at her. I don't need this nonsense.

"What do you mean 'so'? Why you no good, little—"

I roll my eyes, shake my head and go on my way. "C'mon, Penny. We're gonna be late." Penny walks along with me without question.

Jamie, however, is not done with me, stamping her feet on the floor and catching up to us. She grabs my shoulder and stops me. "Don't you dare walk away from me, Watterson!" she screams. Penny gasps as this cow, mule, bull, whatever thing imposes her will on me. "In case you've forgotten, you and I have some unfinished business to take care of.

Nevertheless, I do not falter from her touching me. "Can it wait? I have somewhere to be," I politely tell her, unfazed by her roughness. I remove her hand from my shoulder, and Penny and I continue walking. My girlfriend is visibly scared, wondering if I'm making the right decision by avoiding Jamie outright.

But this girl is persistent. The third time she catches up to us, she holds me up by my shirt and pins me to the wall. This time I look at her and see what has become of her. Her teeth are misaligned, and the swelling in her eyes has not yet gone away. It's only gotten worse, spreading and darkening into a sickly, unnatural shade. I did that to her. I was right in trying not to make eye contact.

"Do you remember this?" Jamie points at her eye, baring her crooked and chipped teeth in the best glower she can form with them.

"Of course I remember," I say, my words dead of any emotion.

"I don't think you do. So in that case, I'll make you remember!"

She rallies up her fist, but Penny comes charging in and tackles her to the ground, yelling "Get away from him!" strangely without transforming. She looks down in horror at what she had done. Jamie looks back up at her and exploits that horror by grabbing Penny by the neck and pinning her to the wall.

"You wanna be the knight in shining armor this time around?" she hisses underneath her breath. "Fine, have it your way."

Breaking out of my solemn haze, I watch with an ember of anger as Jamie shifts her grip from Penny's neck to her arms. That ember is quickly stoked into a wildfire, and that wildfire into an inferno. She picked a very bad time to tick me off.

She did not just do that.

She did not just lay her grubby little paws on my girlfriend.

Jamie learns this the hard way when I snatch one of her arms and everything goes downhill from there. She releases Penny and throws a punch at me, but I block it with my other arm. She pushes against me, but it's useless. I pull and twist her arm and toss her to the ground, where I then punch her repeatedly. In the face and in her stomach.

The gasp she lets out prefaces the pain that she feels. Prone and unable to defend herself, she eats the full force of my punches, which create a hole on the floor.

I don't care if she's a girl; quite frankly, she could be a boy for all we know. Regardless of _what_ she is, visiting harm on Penny is one of the most unforgivable acts anyone can do in my book.

I don't stop until she is a disfigured, crooked-toothed, red-faced heap on the school floor. Her blood finds its way on my paws, seeping into my nails, staining my fur.

Scurrying up the stairs, a bunch of students hurry to the scene to see what is happening. What _has_ happened… They see me standing over Jamie, barely-conscious and bloody, coughing up sprays of that sticky red liquid. Her body twitching with each harried cough. In a few seconds, some of the faculty join in. The nurse rushes past everybody, actually caring about her job for once. At the back, I find Rocky and Miss Simian watching with indescribable shock. It will only be a matter of time before Principal Brown and the Coach join the rabble.

And I don't care. Why should I?

As I gaze everyone down, from out of the group, Banana Joe emerges and attempts to quell me, knowing that my sights are now set on him.

"Now, Gumball, listen," starts the pathetic excuse for a fruit. "It doesn't have to be like this. We're cool, right? You and me?" His nervous laughter and failing composure are getting on my nerves. The crowd parts to either side, giving me room to stalk this poor boy, too afraid to exchange looks. Too afraid to try and extinguish this inferno. An inferno can't be put out, can it? "That whole Karate Weiner thing, you know it was all in good fun. No hard feelings? Gumball? Buddy?" He falls on his butt and backs himself along the floor. Realizing that he has nowhere to go, he starts begging, eyes moist with tears. "Please don't hurt me…"

His pleas fall on deaf ears. I clench one of his arms, my eyes latching on to his and never letting go. I force him off of the ground closer to me, and he's quivering harder than he ever has.

A moment of silence passes, and I then turn and pull Joe's arm and strike him with my palm. He flies out of his peel and splats onto the wall, groaning in pain. Like the feline I am, I lick the back of my arm to get his mushy remains off.

"Alright, that's enough!" demands Miss Simian, intervening. "You've stepped in it now, Watterson. You're coming with me to the principal's office this instant." She proceeds to touch me, only for me to grab hold of her wrist. I face her.

"Don't. Touch. Me," I growl.

Twisting and contorting her wrist is all it takes to change her. She cringes as her brain registers the hurt and her knees are forced to bend. She isn't the steel-willed, irritable teacher of my class. Right now she's the pitiful, deplorable, miserable ape who made my mother's life worse than it needed to be. The pitiful, deplorable, miserable ape who derived pleasure from the misfortune of others.

For what she's done in the past, I'm going to repay her a hundred times over.

I do not release my paw from her person and only tighten it and turn it further. She goes from mere cringing to full-blown yelling. Her screams pierce everyone's ears like a needle pierces skin.

The horror in the faces of every student watching is embedded in my mind. Good. I want them to see a Gumball Watterson like they've never seen him before. Not Zach or any other name that may be eluding me. I am me. I am power. I am strength.

Much to my confusion, Penny is next to intervene, getting behind me and pulling me away from Simian. As she tries to break me off and diffuse the scene, her own pleading yells sound in these halls.

"Gumball, stop it! You're going to break her arm!" demands my darling. I don't get it. She should be happy. She should be grateful for this new and improved me. "Come on, let go!"

I can't. I don't. I don't want to. I will not. She does not process this the way that I do. She shapeshifts between many monstrous and powerful beasts, from a bull to a bear to finally her dragon form.

She finally gets me off of her, and the two of us fall to the ground. We pick ourselves up, myself dusting any dust that may have gotten on my legs.

Penny backs away, baffled by what she's seeing. The crowd shares her horror and fear. Though the raging flame has finally died, the damage has already been done. Quietly, in their heads, they ask one question: what did he just do? What _did_ I just do?


	13. You are

_**The Carbon Copy**_

 **by Christopher R. Martin**

Chapter 13 – You are…

* * *

I type the final paragraph or two on my essay and send the document off to one of my university professors via his email address. The message delivered, I close the lid of my laptop and recline along my chair. Escaping out of my lungs is a hearty sigh of fulfillment. Submitting the last of my assignments for university calls for a celebration. My definition of a celebration is mild compared to other people. It's nothing more but an ice cold helping of Calvados. Technically, this is my third glass, but honestly, who's counting besides me? And it's not like I'm going overboard with my sips or anything like that.

The dark green beverage washes over my tongue, heavenly bliss on my taste buds. The rich apple flavor never gets old. It never will. I rest my head on my paw and relish the drink, swirling it to stir out the bubbles.

After that glass has been fully downed, only now do I realize that my bottle is also empty. I dispose of it in the kitchen, rinse my glass and lie down on the sofa. On my way to the living room, though, _she_ stops me dead on my tracks.

"I see that you're very busy with your studies," she appears where I meant to go, sitting on one end of the sofa with her legs crossed.

"That's none of your concern," I retort without the slightest bit of mercy. "By the way, I thought you were taking a nap."

"I changed my mind."

"Well, what _do_ you want, then? Can't you go bother someone else for a change?" I lie down on the sofa as I intended to, tucking my legs in so that I don't have to touch her.

"There's no one else here I can bother besides you, Nicole. I want to talk to you about something."

 _She_ wants to _talk_? My mother? Of all people? That's a laugh. That's about as funny as Lucy Simian and Nigel Brown being an item.

Mom asks me of this while coughing profusely and constantly clearing her throat. This goes on for ten seconds.

"Are you alright?" I ask her in a scrutinizing fashion, narrowing one eye at her.

"I am. Or at least, I should be," rasps Mom, catching her breath.

"What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Well, you see—"

The door swings open for the kids, who come in dropping their bags upon entry. Gumball is the last one in, tossing his backpack haphazardly and walking up the stairs without acknowledging either me or his grandmother.

Come to think of it, Darwin and Anais are also looking rather glum, if not outright upset.

"Hey, so how was school, you guys?" I greet them with some cheer to lighten their moods.

"Okay, maybe?" shrugs Darwin, half-awake after going through another school day.

"I wish I could say the same thing about Gumball," adds Anais, who's a little bitterer than her brother.

"What happened now?"

Though I ask, my suspicions tell me what it could be.

* * *

Today's lesson starts off the same way as every other lesson before. Gumball and I go through the same warmups that we've done to get our blood circulating and muscles and joints loose. For our leg raising exercise, I stop my usual counting to have a word with my son.

"So what's this about you beating up Jamie again and breaking Miss Simian's arm at school today?" I ask, lifting my leg to the level of my head several times.

"I didn't break Miss Simian's arm, Mom," replies Gumball, his leg raises fast and fluid.

"But you did hurt her, right?"

Gumball doesn't answer that. As we switch from one leg to the next, he pauses to let out a sigh.

"And what about Jamie?" I repeat the routine with my left leg, my muscles warming up and joints unlocking.

"I had to do what I did. She had Penny pinned against the wall. What else should I have done?"

Here, any other parent would have made a list of alternatives. Telling a teacher or the principal, talking some sense into the bully, just to name two. In addition to the usual berating of their child. Assuming that's the correct course of action that a parent should take.

I would berate Gumball, too. I would tell him that it was wrong of him to do what he did and call him out for his behavior. I would remind him of those alternatives that he could have taken. But I don't do any of that. If anything, I just process his account of what took place at his school.

Rather than shouting at him at the top of my lungs, I compare his experiences today with those of my own. This comparison draws a different reaction out of me. When I think about it, I have to empathize with my son. If I were him, I would have done what he did. I would have stood my ground against whoever is giving me a hard time and even punch or kick them if I feel it's necessary.

But no. He can be better than that. Better than me. He's still young, and it's not too late yet.

One of the most important principles in Yoshida-Ryu karate, and any other form of karate for that matter, is not to initiate conflict, but to end it. A karateka is supposed to acquire these skills so they may better themselves as a person. To protect, not to destroy. It's a teaching that is not easily registered in the back of one's mind. Too often people have entered a Yoshida-Ryu dojo with the express purpose of visiting harm upon others, specifically those who have wronged them in the past. Fostering their skills also means fostering that hatred. That anger. I have heard many accounts of this happening and have seen it for myself with my own two eyes.

After finishing our last warmup, we sit on the floor, and I relay to my son these reflections. He heeds every last word attentively, but not without speaking his mind.

"Did you find it difficult when you were a kid?" asks Gumball.

"I can't say that it _wasn't_ hard, because it was. I'll admit, even now, I do forget from time to time."

"'From time to time'?" my son retorts, eyebrow quirked.

I chuckle at him. He's got me there. "Okay, a lot of the time. But what I'm trying to say still stands. Gumball, sweetie, you and Penny have my support all the way. I will always be happy knowing that you two have something very special." I don't bring up my expectation of being a grandmother, but I'm sure that Gumball is already aware of it. "And you standing up for each other makes me all the happier. That is very admirable of you. So do your best to show that admirable side of you as much as you can, even when you find that it gets too hard for you. Understand?"

"I do, Mom," nods my son. He and I stand and bow. Then he hugs me again, forgetting that he and I are technically student and teacher, not mother and son, and that this is technically a dojo, not a tool shed. "Just one quick thing before we get started."

"What is it, _gakusei_?"

The words that follow take me aback. The foundation that I am built on withers. Not completely broken, but it's getting there.

"You're not a failure, Mom."

Why is he doing this? What has gotten over him?

I don't know. I wish I did. I wish I knew what he meant. Maybe if he means what I think he does. Whatever these may be, there's comfort to be found in his words. I fight to hold off the impulse to cry. That impulse, however, is the strongest that it's been.

I clear my throat loudly to get him to let go, and he does. He bows and moves into position. He sees my dwindling will, so I steel myself and stand in my neutral _datchi_.

"Let's kick things off like we always do. Right hand out for the stomach-level straight punch."

" _Hai!_ " acknowledges Gumball, thrusting his arm out at my command, punching at my count.

Three sets of seven to nine repetitions, the first set slow, the second medium-paced, and the third fast. Focusing on every aspect, leaving aside none, and improving on them. Form, posture and execution. That is the course of these lessons. For punches, blocks and kicks, we adhere to this routine. We do not veer from it. When a new move is introduced, we slow down so my son can learn it in full. The technique behind the move, the purpose and its application.

The moves that are new to this lesson involve an open-paw form. Defensive maneuvers that cover the upper parts of the body, namely the head. Outside of this makeshift dojo, these moves are not strictly limited to having your hand or your paw open always. I personally found the open-paw aspect to be a purely cosmetic fuddy-duddy.

That is the beauty of a martial art such as karate. The more proficient you get at it, the more it becomes second nature. Karateka who practice any style of karate refer to this as the 'Four Stages of Competency'.

It starts with Unconscious Incompetence, which is when you know absolutely nothing. No idea about what you're doing and why you're doing it, nor any prior knowledge of any kind.

After that is Unconscious Competence, where you know what you're supposed to do and why, but have not yet nailed it down to perfection.

Conscious Competence follows, where you know what to do, why you'd do it, and are able to do it correctly. It's not perfection, per se, because you are still paying attention to and correcting aspects of the skill, whether it's the form or the execution. Anyone at this stage can only perform the act at their utmost when they are given instruction. Perfection is a more obtuse word…

…for what we karateka call Unconscious Competence. This is what any aspiring martial artist aims for. This is what anyone aims for, period. Being able to perform anything on command, on an initiative, as opposed to the word of a superior, be it a teacher or a manager.

A black belt— _sensei_ and _shihan_ alike—are always Unconscious Competent. At least, they are expected to be. An Unconscious Competent karateka, or martial artist, understands so much, from the strengths and barriers of their body to their own body's capacity so far to their learnings to when and how to put them to effect. Upon arriving at the Unconscious Competence stage, you discover how seamlessly you can transition from one move to the next. After throwing a punch or a kick, or blocking a punch or kick, you are left in such a position where you can do as you please afterward.

A little over two weeks since starting, and Gumball is closer to that coveted fourth and final stage of competence than any other karateka I knew when I was his age, including myself. Since hearing about his outbursts of violence at school, I have been theorizing that this is his untapped potential manifesting in its rawest form. Inner strength at such a pure state is dangerous when left alone to do as it pleases, as the students and teacher at my son's school can testify amidst their horrified looks and perhaps their dislocated bones. As every karateka who attended the kumite recently can also testify.

One would think with how freely he follows his heart, he'd take after his father more than me. In a way, I'm rather envious of him because of it. He doesn't need to be shown the way, to be taught this truth older than time itself. It's embedded in him since he was a baby. Since he was in my womb. Whereas I may have wanted to heed what my own heart told me, but I didn't have the courage to make it so. That was the one thing I was afraid of; at the end of the day, I reminded myself that I was still my parents' child, and that I needed them. It took Richard's encouragement and the last years of puberty for me to fully open my eyes.

On the other hand, it's amazing how much closer he and I are than I'd cared to notice. How he takes after me in more ways than one. In more than just how we look. I became as strong as I am now—as people like to claim I am, anyway—because I had no other choice. Because I had to. To appease my mother, to become the best at everything I did. To fight for the sake of a friend or family. To mold myself into the ideal person, even if it meant losing myself from time to time. The very reason that Gumball is pursuing this goal. Like watching a reflection of mine. Of my eleven year-old self.

A peculiar thought dawns in the back of my mind. I don't really like to dwell on it, but now that I am, there's no escaping it. It may just as well be the case. Only one way to find out…

"Sweetie, what did you mean by 'I'm not a failure'?" I ask my son during our break.

"No real reason. Just saying you're not a failure, and you shouldn't let what anyone else says get to you," shrugs Gumball, helping himself to another swig of his water.

He's lying.

"Come now, Gumball. What did you _really_ mean?"

There's silence in the shed, compounded by the scent of the incense burning behind me. Overcome by difficulty, Gumball faces the floor. He doesn't expect me questioning him, and now that I am, he's backed himself into a corner. He isn't afraid, though. In fact, I don't know what he's emoting.

After holding off for a second or so, he swallows and affects a phantom of a smile. "Whatever happens, I want you to know that I'm grateful for you, Mom. You and Dad. And that I love you both."

"I, um… I love you too, sweetie. Your father and I will always love you, but I'm still confused."

Gumball chuckles lightly, shakes his head and…sniffles? Why is he…

"You don't have to be. It's just"—my son sighs—"I'm so glad to have you as my mother, and that I shouldn't have acted the way I did. Screaming at you, being stubborn, questioning your authority and just stepping out of line too many times. You deserve better than that." He closes his eyes and meditates.

A gentle smile spreads across my lips as I caress his head. Tenderly I stroke his fur with the back of my paw, lightening whatever burden may be on his shoulders.

"Oh, honey, it's okay," I comfort him, and he looks at me. "I know I get mad at you for disobeying me and a bunch of other reasons I can't think of right now"—I chuckle to myself to shed as much light as I can—"but guess what? You're still young. You may have made more than your fair share of mistakes, and I can guarantee you that you'll make so many more in the future, but that's okay. That's to be expected. That's the beauty of growing up. In fact, I encourage you, your brother and your sister to keep on making these mistakes. Leave no stone unturned. You'll be amazed by what you discover along the way." I impart all this to him as I fondle his face and fur. Eventually I stop fondling and hold him by his cheeks. "And don't you ever think that you're a no-good waste of space or that I should have had a better child. I know you told me you want to be a better person, and that's okay, but always remember this: no one will ever be better children in my book than you three because there's only one you. Only one Anais, only one Darwin and only one Gumball." I rest my forehead on his, closing my eyes to revel in the sound of our beating hearts. "From now until forever, you are always my son. That will never change. Okay?"

I look down to find that a tear has sneaked out from Gumball's right eye. I hear his sniffling getting louder and more pronounced. "Okay."

I rustle my son's head, we both stand up, and the lesson continues…

* * *

"One for you, one for you, one for you, and last but not least, one for my one and only queen."

After going around the dinner table handing out slices of pizza for everyone, Richard ends with me and playfully does a curtsy, to the amusement of the kids and myself.

Though I don't see what the proper behavior is for. Sure, it's Fervidus Pizza, which I admit is better than other pizza places that process their food instead of baking them in a stone oven, but…eh. It's still pizza. Not really a cause for being classy. At least he's adorable for trying, especially with the way one of his ears twitches.

"Why, thank you," I giggle. "Alright, everyone. Let's dig in." We all take our slices and go on to take the first bite, when…

"Wait, wait, wait, where's Nana Senny?" asks Richard.

Just like that, my mood plummets to the ground, as does my pizza. I rub my temples to filter that nickname that my husband refers to Mom by out of my mind. Dinner is one of the few times of the day when I am truly, perfectly at peace. Guess I won't be having any of that peace tonight.

"I'm just asking, Nicole," adds Richard, offended by my sour attitude.

"She's upstairs. She told me she doesn't want to join us tonight," I arch my head back and roll my eyes at the ceiling.

"Did she _really_ say that?" suspects my husband, arms folded and eyes trained on me.

"Yes," I answer him without a second thought. "She said that she had something to take care of. Whatever it is, I don't know."

Richard doesn't press any further, wary that I might crack if he does.

Gumball looks at me from across the table with a sullen pair of eyes, leaving his pizza slice to grow cold on the side. I reassure him by putting on a half-decent smile, and he consumes his food and helps himself to another serving.

This is stupid of me. What am I doing? I mean, _why_ am I doing what I'm doing? The woman isn't even here with us tonight, and I'm shifting the burden onto her. I'm better than this. I should be better than this.

In a bid to diffuse the tension, I start up some idle talk on the table. Richard diverges into a tangent about work today, how he almost knocked Larry down with his scooter from parking it after one of his round trips around Elmore. Had he actually hit him, it would mean six months' worth of his salary going up in smoke just to cover for his medical bills. Odd. I thought supervisors and managers are also entitled to compensation.

Darwin brings up volunteer work for the senior citizens of this town, which he's never brought up until now. He mentions an unlikely meeting between Jojo, Louie and Frankie at the park this afternoon. I can only imagine the awkwardness that is Joanna's husband and ex-husband meeting face-to-face. According to Darwin, it went quite well, the two of them passing the time by skipping stones at the lake and maybe another activity or two while they were at it.

Anais's tale is more on the bizarre end of the spectrum. Apparently, one of her classmates who's very fond of her—I'm scared to ponder what sort of 'fond' she's talking about—approached her for the fourth time in two weeks about a side project involving frogs, or a secret society leader that just so happens to _be_ a frog. She's tried staying out of his eye line, but he wouldn't stay out of hers. She makes an off-hand sarcastic comment about moving down to a kindergarten to interact with others her age and less crazy. It may be a quip, but I don't discard it entirely. That could be a good idea.

The story I share is about my mad rush to get my assignments for university done. From nine in the morning to three in the afternoon, I had been slaving away at my laptop typing like no tomorrow, putting my thoughts out into words, in the form of an essay or report or slideshow. I had gotten everything I need to do done in a timely and simple order, but I was immensely drained afterwards. If the glasses of brandy I indulged in during that time didn't leave me drunk, it sure made the fatigue last longer.

Gumball tells his story last, and he doesn't have much by means of an account of today's events. No, wait. He comments about a trip to Steve Small's office for some counselling. I can quickly tell why, but Darwin, Anais and Richard can't, and Gumball instinctively keeps it that way. The one other thing he has to say is interesting, though. Masami approached him today once again bearing news that might intrigue him. And it does intrigue him.

Another Yoshida-Ryu Karate event. This time, a karate tournament, held at Elmore Junior High's gym, each rank having their own dedicated division to ensure that the competition is fair. That's what's described in a flier for the event that Gumball passes over to me. It's to take place in two month's time, which should be enough for him to develop his skill and advance to a much higher rank.

"What do you think, Mom?" asks my son, expecting my approval.

After reading the flier for myself, I set it down on the table. "That's up to you, honey. You really want to do this?"

" _Hai!_ " he answers rigidly, complete with a short bow.

"Then that's that. And we'll all be there watching and cheering you on. Right, guys?"

The others clamor and voice their agreement.

"But do you think you'll be ready?" states Darwin.

"What do you mean 'do I think I'll be ready'?" Gumball tapers his eyes, seemingly insulted.

Darwin stammers for a response, but stammering is all he can manage to do, leaving Anais to step in and do the rest of the talking. "What he means is will you go crazy like you've been doing lately?" she elaborates, not mincing any words. Making no bones about it.

"Now, sweetie, you could ask your brother a little nicer than that," corrects Richard as his third pizza slice misses his mouth and hits his lip.

"No, Dad, she's right," sighs Gumball, perching his head on his knuckles. "I'm not sure, but I'm going to work on it. And I won't have to do it by myself." As he makes this statement, I notice that he's set his eyes on me and smiles.

I smile back at him and nothing more. Although in my mind, I do bear a few words that I want to say to him. _That's my boy. That's the spirit, my son._

* * *

By Richard's suggestion, I should try to make an effort to repair my relationship with my mother. If she's putting in the effort on her part, there's no reason why I can't. I had wanted to say to his face that you can't fix what's irreparable or what was never there, but I thought better of it in order to not hurt him. That, and I would have lied to him if I did.

Poor Richard. Poor naïve Richard. I love him to death, but if only he were a little wiser. If only he could see the world past a black and white set of lens. Not every parent and child is like him and his mother. What comes easy for the two of them might not come as easy for others.

Case in point…

I made it wholesomely clear that I'm not making an effort to patch this rift between me and Mom. Just because I'm allowing her to stay here for as long as she needs doesn't change anything. As a matter of fact, the sooner she leaves this house, the better it will be for everyone, not just me.

But I suppose for his sake, I _can_ try. I really should.

Traversing up the stairs, I head left to the guest room to check on my mother and bid her goodnight. When I open the door and peer inside, she's sitting on the bed scribbling words out on a notepad that she's probably brought over with her. She quickly closes it and tosses the pen to the side at the sight of me.

She puts on a face like nothing has happened. And my nothing _has_ happened. Or I could care less what antics she's busying herself with.

"Oh, Nicole," gasps Mom, her wry smile wavering and struggling not to fall off. "What's up?"

"Um… I wanted to see if you're comfortable and whatnot," I manage to tell her amidst the awkward air.

"Well in that case, yes I'm fine, thanks for wondering."

"What were you doing just now?" Maybe I care more about her business than I'd like to be.

"Huh?" The woman glances at her notepad and searches for where her pen landed. "Ah, it's not important. Just practicing my cursive writing so that it doesn't go away." Mother coughs one, two, three, eight times, covering her mouth as each one is more harried than the last.

"Right," I reply indifferently.

Her coughing does not stop and goes on five more times or so. She catches her breath and her composure, holding her paw over her throat.

"Are you okay?" I open the door a little wider. I've noticed ever since she arrived that she'd go into long coughing bouts and then regain herself afterwards, and that it's a rather frequent occurrence. At worst, she'd pause to cough every hour.

I don't know why, but I worry a little about her— _only_ a little—before discarding this feeling. I hope it doesn't come back. Her staying here is just a common courtesy. Nothing more, nothing less.

"I'm fine. It must be this spring air," Mother reassures, attempting to sweep the issue under the rug. "With all these pesky allergies floating around, you can never be too careful."

I take her word at face value for the time being. Until something else arises, I'm in no position to worry. Not when there are other pressing matters in my plate already.

"Well then, if you don't need anything else, I guess this is goodnight," I close the door in front of me and leave it slightly open to hear my mother one last time.

"Goodnight, dear," says Mom tenderly, her smile compassionate. A genuine compassion, for once. "I love you."

I remain at the door, resting my forehead on it, for the longest time, then spare her one final look. "Love you, too." She flicks the lamp on the nightstand on, which prompts me to switch the light in her room off.

Did I _really_ just say that?

I then walk to my room with my head and heart heavy as lead. This might be the last time I ever say those three words to her. If that's the case, then she had better savor it.

* * *

 _ **Author's note:**_

 _After over a year of dormancy, I,_ The One & Only C. R. Martin _, return with another update for this story that so many of you have enjoyed. I'm amazed that many of you love this story so much that you were eagerly expecting it to return. Amazed and humbled._

 _Thank you for your readership and adoration, people. I hope you continue to enjoy this story, and I swear, as an author, to see this story through to the end._

 _Until then, I'm_ The One & Only C. R. Martin _, and I'll see you guys later. Ciao for now._


End file.
